


Raze

by gwyx (gwydionx)



Series: Knights of Amaranth [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Badass Fey, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Elves, Enemies to Lovers, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, MMA, Magic, Major Original Character(s), Monsters, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Paranormal, Pukwudgie, Rough Sex, Swords & Sorcery, Villain Protagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-10-06 04:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10325978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwyx
Summary: “Iknowwhat I am, Jiro. It is why I am strong. What are you?”Or, the cross-worlds fantasy adventure romance between a fey assassin, a mortal street fighter, and the hunt for Hector Raethgard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third of four standalone (but interconnected) stories about fey knights and the humans who love them. Each story centers on a different knight, and has a different tone. Raze is the mad, bad, and dangerous romance.
> 
> Fandom influence is Supernatural, Green Lantern, and a bit of Jason Todd. :) Mab is the [Knight of Wands (Fire)](https://teachmetarot.com/lesson-1/lesson-2/the-knight-of-wands/#divinatory-meanings-keywords) in the Rider-Waite tarot.
> 
> For music-lovers, theme song for Raze is [The High Road](https://youtu.be/1EE0dA1T128) by Three Days Grace. Soundtrack is their [Transit of Venus](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtaVursCO0I1rOCrqm5DO5EXYAK59B9A6) album. :)
> 
>  **Warnings:** This story features a protagonist who is a villain, and is played as one. It also features a main character struggling with internalized homophobia. Trigger warning for unwelcome (and unsuccessful) physical advances, a scene of borderline dubious consent, consensual rough sex, and punches thrown between partners. Mab and Jiro are both physically aggressive characters who don't hesitate to get in each other's space. However, their relationship develops in spite of the bad, not because of it.
> 
> In order to avoid spoilers, I will **not** be posting trigger warnings by chapter. If you have any concerns, please feel free to get in touch with me via [Tumblr](http://gwyxion.tumblr.com/) and I'll tell you a bit more what to expect. 
> 
> Comments/criticism are always very welcome. :) Happy reading.

The morning laid still and quiet. Fog hung in heavy blankets across the little valley filled with the fading glow of streetlamps lining the plexus of brick and pavement lanes of the city, swelling like a flooding pool beyond the horizon and up to the very edge of the foothills set as sentinels on the western slope. The silent gray of dawn broke against the sky, sending stars to banishment in the heavens mute above.

A silhouette against the darker quiet of the dawn, Mab perched. His thin lips curled in a frown as he beheld the great span of the city below—these mortals built like insects, crawling on top of each other in neat little rows, snuffing any wilderness they found. It was sickening. All it would take is one crack in their tremulous structure and the entire city would fall to its knees.

Weakness.

But down in the labyrinth of neatly-cut streets, his quarry hid in unobtrusive darkness. The Queen had claimed it a hopeless cause: finding a single man in such a nest could not be accomplished, not by any power she possessed. Their prey was lost, never to return.

He knew better. With a leer, Mab turned. Behind him, struggling in the dirt, the young houndcat lay bound in leather thongs. It writhed and growled through muzzled jaws, threatening to dismember him should he ever let it free.

That is just what he intended to do. “Alright, beastie… Time for a hunt,” he smiled in triumph. With a flourish he produced a bit of cloth from the pouch at his hip. Unceremoniously he shoved it in the beast’s face, smothering until its eyes darted and turned in disorientation. Then a clean sweep of his knife cut the leather laces holding it prisoner. Last to come was the muzzle, and the beast did the final work itself, snatching it from his hand and biting the leather to tatters. Dissatisfied with scraps, it leapt at him in feral fury.

Mab stood ready.

A single sweep of his knife across the beast’s flank and it wheeled, darting off into the browning heather. The houndcat valued its freedom too much to risk life or limb on her captor. In moments its sooty coat melded with the shadows of dawn.

Mab grinned and sheathed his knife. “Good girl.”

 

* * *

 

“Ready… Go!”

Jiro loosened, readying his stance for attack. The man before him stepped lightly, deceptively quick for his mass. Jiro knew he was disadvantaged in weight and height; he also knew the old adage was true—the bigger they are, the harder they fall. He raised his hands and prepared to react.

The man struck. Fists flew with unerring speed, and Jiro ducked, aiming a jab at his opponent’s midsection. The man spun out of reach easily. Jiro paused, resuming a defensive position.

The man struck again, this time at his head. Jiro tumbled back and narrowly avoided the blows. He spun in a roll; the man easily leapt over the trip maneuver. Jiro pushed up as another strike fell. It glanced off his shoulder, and he used momentum to grab the man’s arm. He twisted, throwing the other’s weight to hurl him bodily to the mat. A well-aimed jab broke his grasp, and the man once again rolled free.

Jiro backed away, hands raised. It felt good here, in the sparring ring. No second-guessing, no maybes or should haves—just pure, unadulterated combat. Life had thrown him the worst it could, outside these doors; he’d spent years drifting from one city to another, scrounging a living where he could, and years before that tossed in and out of foster homes. He’d learned the hard way that nothing was certain, that bad situations usually led to worse, and that the only person he could trust was himself. Sometimes not even that. Someone once said he had a gypsy heart; Jiro believed them. But no matter what, this was his home—the focused intensity he found in the split-second between strike and blow. Here, he knew what he had to do, and did it.

Adrenaline pumped in his blood, loosening muscles and movement. As his opponent regained his own fighting stance, Jiro caught the spark in his eye, the set in his body shift. For all his wanderings, Jiro had never met a fighter like this—this man moved with the agility of a feline and the brutality of a war machine. And Jiro knew what that look meant.

When the attack came, it was a cyclone: fists and kicks and jabs that struck with brutal force, precision and lethal accuracy. He threw his own blows, slipping quickly to match the other’s speed, but only for moments. The strikes began landing. Pain jolted him like a siren—his mind moved in rapid reaction, searching for an opening. He caught it and threw a knee up to connect with the man’s groin.

It never met home. In a flash movement, the man caught his leg and tossed him, heels over head, onto the mat.

A thud. Air whooshed from his lungs. He fought to breathe, fought to rise. The dark blue of the mat before his eyes faded and returned. He knew it was over.

“Concede?” The deep rumble of his opponent’s voice spoke from above; a rolling German accent added weight to the demand.

At last, as air began trickling back into his lungs, Jiro nodded.

With a small grin of triumph, Morgan leaned down and hauled Jiro to his feet without prelude.

“That was good,” the big man nodded. “You kept your feet longer this time.”

Jiro managed a smile. “…I was hoping you’d go full tilt on me, eventually.” He suppressed a wince, masking the pain still clinging to his lungs. “I might be ready to call it a night,” he confessed. “That last fall hit me pretty hard.”

Morgan chuckled. “You struck too openly. The trick is to remain loose, so your opponent cannot read your intention.”

He nodded. “Next time…” he sighed. “The odds can’t always be for you.”

With a knowing smile, Morgan negated the statement. “It is not about odds—you trusted yourself, and moved without hesitation. That is the key to a strong fighter. That place you went to, in your head…” He reached down to scoop his water bottle from the mat. “It is what gives you the advantage.”

“Not against you,” Jiro laughed. He descended from the training platform, followed closely by the other. He didn’t ask how Morgan knew where his mind went; it was an unspoken truth between them. “You’re like a fucking beast. I’m lucky if I can score a hit on you.”

They’d reached the locker room door. Morgan slung his towel over his shoulder and laughed. “I have more experience than you. Never forget that.”

“Yeah…” Jiro smiled in return, but he knew beneath the simple statement was a truth the big man refused to speak. He had appeared out of nowhere at a house party over a year ago, coupled with a friend of a friend, a bohemian artist type Jiro had seen occasionally before. Morgan looked like he lifted weights, and sure enough, when asked Jiro discovered they attended the same gym, and had a similar interest in close-combat fighting and fitness.

It was a fast friendship, but in the year Jiro had known him, Morgan never spoke about his homeland, or let on his real age. His accent made Jiro think East European, and his practical competence in over a dozen weapons spoke of someone who had seen combat. Add that to Morgan’s hardy endurance and ridiculous strength, and Jiro could piece together the story—a man caught on the wrong side of a war, driven from his country and rebuilding a life of peace. From appearances, Jiro gauged Morgan’s age around twenty eight, which was too young to have fought in anything like the Balkans conflict; still, Jiro wouldn’t be surprised if Morgan had been part of some revolution or resistance Jiro himself had never even heard of.

Not that it mattered. Jiro was no stranger to a haunted past. But years of street living had taught him a man’s past wasn’t important. What he chose to do in the here and now was what mattered, and Morgan had been a good friend, an incredible training partner and an honest boyfriend to his bohemian artist. Not once had he caught even a hint of sexual tension from Morgan, in the locker room or elsewhere. Which was good—Jiro wouldn’t know what to do with a proposition from a man, even if he was a friend. Apart from a couple teenage games of gay chicken, he’d lived his life firmly on the side of heterosexuality. Morgan respected this, and for that he won Jiro’s loyalty. “Maybe someday I’ll catch up with you,” he smirked as they reached their lockers.

A small, amused smile took Morgan’s lips. “Aye. Maybe.”

He clicked open the metal door, and then swore. “Shit… Not again,” he sighed. At the bottom of the locker, only his shoes were left. Someone had cleaned him of his clothes.

Morgan leaned over, appraising the empty space with a frown. “You should have locked it,” he said.

Jiro’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t think I’d need to on a Tuesday night.” He was just grateful he’d left his wallet at the motel. Glancing up to the dated wall clock, he realized it was later than he’d thought. And it was almost certainly getting colder, without the standard warmth of Colorado sunshine. “Walking back in shorts is gonna suck.”

Morgan reached into his bag, producing an extra t-shirt and jeans. “Here. I brought a pair to switch out, but it might be better than what you’ve got.”

For a moment, Jiro thought about declining. But the thought of a walk to the hotel in near-freezing weather, in nothing but a tank top and athletic shorts made him reconsider. Another sigh of acceptance, and he reached out to take them. “Thanks,” he added. “I’ll wash ’em tonight and bring them with me in the morning.”

Morgan nodded, and they devolved into the standard silence while changing. Out of respect, they kept their eyes focused on their own clothing, and when Jiro looked over again, Morgan was fully clothed in a long-sleeve crew shirt, jeans, and combat boots; it was the other thing that made Jiro think the man had been a soldier—he never caught him in anything but boots, outside of the gym.

“Ready?” he asked.

Morgan slammed his locker shut and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder with easy grace. “After you.”

....

Evening had fallen thickly when Jiro and Morgan stepped out into the parking lot.  Streetlamps buzzed to life, casting their glow out in blue-white circles across the near empty lot of cars. Jiro had owned a car, once, but when he settled into Fort Collins for good, he’d sold it to save on insurance and gas. He enjoyed the quiet walks home through the myriad of bike trails that ran through the city. And a side benefit—Morgan refused to drive, so Jiro often had company.

“You still intend to leave?” Morgan asked as they stepped off the sidewalk and onto the bike path. The most direct route home led through the college campus, but Morgan seemed keen to take the scenic route. It didn’t bother him much; the quiet cool down was nice after the blasting speakers and noise of the gym.

Jiro breathed in the crisp evening air. “Yeah. Tomorrow will be our last run, if you’re still up for it. A little exercise before a ten hour flight to London’ll do me good.”

A frown took Morgan’s face; gentle, but with reservation. “I am sorry to see you go. You have been a good sparring partner.”

He smiled in understanding. “I’ve enjoyed having a workout partner, too. But I’ll be back in six months. I’ve been saving up for this backpacking trip for over a year… Work said they’d rehire me, and I’ve already moved most of my stuff to storage.”

Morgan did not seem reassured. “Going alone is unwise. The world is a dangerous place, even for men of your fighting talent.”

It brought another smile. “We’re only young once, right? I mean, I’m already twenty three. And anyway, I’d rather die in some back alley in Stockholm than rot here serving Mocha Cappuccinos to grumpy old men.”

Morgan sighed and accepted the inevitable. “Why not stay for lunch tomorrow? Jace’s flight lands in the morning, and I know he would want to wish you well.”

For a moment, Jiro paused. It was the edge of something—something he had worked hard to avoid. “I… I don’t think so. But thanks, really. I should probably get back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

“That is wise…” His voice fell, abruptly cut short.

Jiro came to halt beside him. “What?”

He did not immediately answer. Morgan stood silent and still, listening to the trees around them.

It struck.

A blinding streak of fur and fang, the beast leapt from the hedge full force at Morgan. In a split second assessment, Jiro’s thoughts spiked—mountain lion. It barreled into Morgan with claws bared. Both man and beast fell and tumbled and rolled across the paved walk.

In the darkness, Jiro heard his own voice cry out in shock, but instinct took over. He ran toward the scuffling pile with thought only to aid. The beast had Morgan pinned beneath its great paws. Claws dug into his flesh, but the flash of metal sliced the air: a knife. Morgan let the cat sink teeth into his arm for a chance to dig the blade into its neck. The blow missed in the struggle and caught the beast’s shoulder blade instead. As the cat screamed in response, Jiro reached them. With one fell sweep, his boot connected with the thing’s ribs. It was enough force to knock the cat to its side; Morgan rolled and scrambled to rise, bloody knife in hand.

“Run!” he panted. “Jiro, run!”

But Jiro’s instincts answered, “No…” He scrambled for a rock as the beast rose slowly, recovering from the crippling blow. With a loud cry, he lobbed the stone at the cat as hard as he could. “Shoo!” he shouted, not knowing what else to say. “Go on! Get out of here!”

“Jiro, I can handle this!” Morgan demanded. “Just get—”

The cat pounced. With unnatural speed Morgan met it, fending off claws and teeth with his already wounded arm. He moved with the grace and agility of a feline himself, slicing the knife through the air while dodging the creature’s paws. Jiro scrambled for another rock, waiting for a moment when Morgan was clear to pelt the cat again. The chance came, and he threw it as hard as he could; the cat yowled, but did not turn from its singular focus on Morgan.

Then it happened—in the spin of a backward turn, Morgan’s knife connected with the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed in a geyser through the air, and with a pitiful whoosh of breath the beast dropped like a stone to the pavement. It writhed as the final exhale of breath rattled in its gaping throat. Then it lay still.

Adrenaline roared through Jiro’s veins; instead of clouding his senses, it heightened them. The darkness brought stark definition to the moonlit face of Morgan, grim set and spattered with blood. The knife in his hand gleamed, and the giant cat’s blood crept unerringly across the pavement in a welling pool beneath its jaw. Now still, Jiro noticed—it wasn't a mountain lion. The body was a cat, but the muzzle was longer, the teeth larger. Almost canine.

With a thud, his world went black.

....

Mab stood over the crumpled mortal, watching for one flickering moment of satisfaction. Then hands seized him with the speed of a striking serpent. He was thrown bodily into the trunk of the nearest tree.

Staring into the intense grey eyes of his attacker, Mab smirked. “Hello, Morgan. Did you miss me?”

The rage on Morgan’s face fanned to an inferno. “You…”

“Well, this is familiar,” he taunted. “Though if I remember rightly, last time you weren’t wearing pants.”

It earned a reaction—Morgan’s grip tightened. “Why are you here, Mab?”

“Searching for you, naturally. Did you like the houndcat? They said you could not be tracked, but I knew you would not have gone far.”

Morgan did not relent. “You could have killed someone, letting that beast through! The mortal…”

A tisk. “He is fine. Just a knock on the head. He will not remember a thing, save the attack.” His gaze wandered down to where the young man lay, collapsed on the pavement beside the dead beast. “He is brave, though. Shooing a houndcat takes courage. Or stupidity.”

“He is an innocent man who knows nothing of us! Why are you here? Did she send you?”

Mab’s sardonic grin widened—it was all too easy. “Some of us have not broken our oaths, Morgan. Is it any wonder the Queen wants you dead, after you betrayed your country and fled to this…” his expression soured, “…this dung heap?”

A grim determination set Morgan’s features. The knife, still bloody from his battle with the creature, pressed Mab’s throat. “Give me one good reason I should not kill you where you stand.”

“If you kill me now, you will never know what our Queen has planned. And that could prove disastrous to your survival.”

....

Blackness rolled through Jiro, and a throbbing, pounding pulse. His head ached, and the cold roughness of cement pressed his cheek.

“ _You will never know what our Queen has planned…_ ”

The words, heard in a distant echo, pulled him awake. His eyes flew open—Morgan stood, hand at the throat of a strange man. Jiro had to blink back confusion; he was smaller than Morgan, but still pushed six foot. Black leather chaps covered his outer legs, strapped securely to calf-high boots of the same material. An assortment of buckles and straps wove in crisscross over his chest, which was covered by a close-fitting crimson tunic, the kind Jiro recognized from Renaissance fair geeks. Completing his shadowed look, long, thick black hair fell around his bold features; chiseled, hard-angled yet beautiful. And his lips parted in an earnest smile Jiro nevertheless felt was dangerous. For a captured man to smile meant he knew something you didn’t.

Fear for Morgan spurred Jiro to action. Ignoring the ache in the back of his skull, he rose.

“Ah, look.” The strange man’s smile widened. “The mortal is awake.”

Jiro shook his head to clear the haze, then regretted it as it sent fire through the wound on the back of his skull. He thought he’d heard the word _mortal_. Fear he was still dazed kept the challenge in his throat. “What’s going on? Who… Who is this guy?”

Morgan did not turn, keeping his knife at the stranger’s throat. Jiro saw his shoulders heave in an exhale. “Jiro… If I asked you to leave… Would you do it?”

It was a strange request—the seriousness in Morgan’s tone made him pause to consider the question. “… You want me to leave, when you’ve got a guy pinned to a tree with a knife?” he asked skeptically.

Morgan nodded, even as his prisoner’s eyes lit in fire. “That is precisely what I ask you to do.”

He paused, inhaling. He had no idea what was happening here—who this man was, why he had appeared at the same time as a mountain lion that looked more like a wolf than it should have, why Morgan had taken it upon himself to deal with him, alone. And there was still the question of what had knocked him out. But somehow, he felt this strange man was at the bottom of all of it. Jiro noted the same accent that had sounded so foreign in Morgan also laced the stranger’s words, though softly, more melodic; someone from his homeland? And for as much as he trusted Morgan’s skill, he couldn’t in good conscience leave him to handle it alone. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I can’t do that. Whoever this guy is, we can handle him together.”

This pleased the stranger. “At least he is loyal,” he taunted.

Morgan’s knee came up, pinning the man by the groin. It earned a muffled _umph_ from his prisoner. He hung his head slightly, and accepted Jiro’s decision. “Then if you would, open my bag and bring me the twine from the inner pocket.”

Confusion washed over him, but he did as instructed, locating Morgan’s bag on the pavement where it had fallen during their fight with the mountain lion. He lifted it from the ground and unzipped the top; true to Morgan’s word, there was a large inner pocket. He undid the fastener to find a survival kit: twine, matches, a second knife, a space blanket, a compass… It surprised Jiro, but he didn’t have time to question. He grabbed the length of thin brown rope and slung the bag over his shoulder.

“What do you intend to do with me, then?” the stranger grinned ear to ear. “Tie me up and throw me in the river?”

Jiro had the same question. Morgan, however, remained calm. “I intend to make use of you, Mab. What becomes of you after that weighs on your own conscience, and whether or not you attempt to run.”

The man wasn’t fazed. He watched Jiro with reserved calm as he stepped forward with the rope. “Then I will be on my best behavior,” he taunted, holding out a wrist.

Jiro looked to Morgan, who nodded in confirmation. “Tie his hands behind him. He is too dangerous otherwise.”

The thought that this man was threat enough to make Morgan cautious told Jiro more than a thousand words ever could. He stood well clear of grappling range, and reached out to take the man’s wrist with a firm grip. Mab’s skin felt warm to the touch—warmer than it should have been, in the cold winter air. Jiro wound the twine, secure enough to prevent slipping but not tight enough to cause abrasions. He worked with quick, calm focus; only once did he glance up, and he found the man’s eyes on him, staring down at him with a kind of feral amusement. It sent a shiver of unnerved confusion down Jiro’s spine. He picked up the pace, working to finish the first hand quickly; when it was complete, Morgan grabbed Mab by the collar and pulled him out into the open. Jiro stepped behind and gripped Mab’s other hand with the same firmness, keeping alert for any tenseness or motion that would tell him their prisoner was planning to make an escape.

None came. At last he finished the knots and stepped back. “Done.”

Morgan nodded. “Check his boots and his belt. He will have weapons.”

That jolted him, but he obeyed. Bending to his knees, Jiro felt up the calf-high boots: soft, suppler than he expected. And beneath the leather on either foot, the hard edge of a blade took form beneath his fingertips. He reached in one at a time and produced them—long, lethal steel daggers, slightly curved, with scrawling work up the blade that continued onto the wrapped leather hilts. The craftsmanship was incredible, like something from a museum, a ceremonial blade; each balanced easily in his hand as he set them with reverence on the pavement. He glanced up.

Morgan had not moved, keeping his gaze locked on Mab’s face with the bloody knife at his throat in warning. In the near-darkness, the view struck a vein of awe in Jiro—who were these men? He let his eyes wander up the slope of Mab’s body, the intricate leatherwork and mad Renaissance clothing; up close, the design of his chaps seemed more streamlined than the normal cowboy style, the same soft leather of his boots, engraved with gargoyle-like creatures and blazing bonfires. For a moment, he lost himself in wonder.

“Now his belt,” Morgan prompted.

Jiro blinked, pulling himself back to the task at hand. He rose and inspected the man’s belt from behind. Small satchels and burnished metal rings covered most of the span, but in the chaos he caught a glimpse of another hilt. He reached forward, looping his fingers around the leather, and gave a quick yank.

A weapon entirely foreign slipped from its fastening: like brass knuckles, but with a leather grip, the stretch of metal above it arced outward in a sharpened blade. He wrapped his fingers through, feeling the lethal threat—the amount of damage a weapon like that could do was gruesome.

“There should be another,” Morgan guided. “On the opposite side.”

Jiro looked back, searching for a second hilt. Sure enough, it sat just off center, tucked away behind a larger pocket. He produced it, then bent, setting the blades down next to the daggers at his feet. “What now?”

A frown took Morgan’s features. “Those are the greatest of them. We do not have time to search fully, but it will have to be enough.” He released Mab and held his own knife to Jiro, flipping it to face hilt-first. “Stand guard over him, and I’ll manage the creature.”

Confusion flitted through, then Jiro remembered the dead cat still lying in a pool of blood yards behind them. He grasped the knife as Morgan stepped away.

“Do not touch or engage him,” Morgan warned. “He is a better fighter than you think.”

Glancing down at the weapons now gleaming in the moonlight, Jiro believed him. He stepped back a pace, knife up and ready. “What the hell is going on, Morgan? Who is this guy?”

A quiet chuckle rolled from Mab’s lips, looking Jiro up and down with dismissive amusement. “He is hopeless.”

Morgan did not pay attention to either of them, lifting the weapons from the ground with familiar grace and stowing them in his bag. Then he approached the body of the dead cat, grabbing it with little ceremony and dragging back into the heather. He disappeared for mere minutes, and Jiro kept his eyes glued on Mab; the man did not move, staring back at the place Morgan disappeared with piqued interest. His sharp, masculine features were almost exotic in their angles, Mediterranean, but with pale ivory skin that set in sharp contrast to his tumbling mane of ink-jet hair. What this man had to do with Morgan, Jiro didn’t know. But when the big man returned from the bushes, he did not pause to explain. Morgan strode up to them with bold purpose, slipping off his jacket.

“We will take him back to my apartment, and I can question him there. We have stayed here longer than is wise.” He tossed his jacket over their captive’s shoulders, adjusting it to hide his bound hands. “It is fortunate this trail runs past the campus, and into old town. I do not want to call attention.”

Jiro nodded, then relinquished the knife to Morgan’s determined grasp. He scooped the bag off the ground and followed as Morgan guided Mab down the trail.

“If we encounter trouble, Jiro,” he added, “I want you to run. It would be very difficult to explain the situation to the police, should they detain us.”

Jiro cursed under his breath. This night was getting stranger by the minute.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference: [Top 3 UFC Fights of 2016](https://youtu.be/YQFrP404g6M). (violence/blood warning) This is the style of fighting Jiro and Morgan are using at the start of the story.


	2. Chapter 2

Morgan’s place was a quiet apartment just above an art gallery in the sprawl of old town, a maze of brick walks, historic buildings, nightclubs and restaurants. Even on a Tuesday night, the sidewalks filled with people out to celebrate and drink. Jiro was grateful they took the alleyways, once the span of the bike trail ran out. It was only a few blocks down to the little parking lot in the back of gallery, and then an easy flight up rickety wooden stairs to the door.

As they reached it, Morgan handed the knife back to Jiro. “Keep an eye on him.”

Jiro accepted the blade and kept it hidden behind his body, hoping that no one from the gallery below would come waltzing out the back door to see the spectacle. The jangle of keys told him Morgan had things well in hand, though, and in moments the front door swung open. Morgan grabbed Mab by the scruff of the neck and hauled him inward, clicking on the light as he entered.

Jiro followed, taking in the quaint chaos spread before him. The warm yellow of the hall lamp spread out into a small living room and dining room attached, and fell into shadow at the edge of a hallway leading back to what he assumed was a bed and bath. A low level of clutter made the space feel homey, while still maintaining a kind of order. Paintings covered the walls; with a tinge of discomfort, Jiro noted the one dominating the far wall was a gay couple entwined in a kiss. He tried to keep his cheeks from coloring, even as he stepped in behind the others and shut the door at his back. For a moment, he glanced around expectantly for Jace; then he remembered—he wouldn’t be back till tomorrow. It was just the three of them.

Morgan marched Mab into the living room and reached for the bag, which Jiro held outstretched. He tossed it on the couch and unzipped it with one hand while staying on guard against Mab.

The caution did not go unnoticed. An amused, hungry wolf smile stretched across Mab’s features. “You need not fear me yet, Morgan. I need you alive.”

The news darkened Morgan’s brow. He slid one of Mab’s knives out the canvas bag and unsheathed it. “That remains to be seen,” he growled. He held out the knife to Jiro, who took it easily. “I need to finish disarming him. Keep him guarded.”

Jiro nodded. He took the last few steps to stand before Mab again, even as Morgan knelt and began rooting through the myriad of leather satchels around his waist and strapped to his thighs. The leer on Mab’s face widened. “You have not been on your knees for me in years,” he murmured.

Morgan did not flinch, but continued with his purpose. Metal began to emerge, cast on the floor at the prisoner’s feet—three more knives, all the same make as the first. A smaller, more discreet blade only a few inches long, a set of plain brass knuckles burnished to a black sheen, and finally, when Morgan hit the last satchel, he untied it for inspection then tossed it to the floor with the rest. Strange, jagged throwing stars tumbled out onto the carpet. Jiro’s gaze flitted downward in awe; how Mab had disguised it all on his person was a mystery.

“You weren’t kidding,” Jiro muttered as Morgan produced a final scythed dagger. “This guy packs a punch.”

Morgan’s frown deepened as he stood, and stowed the weapons away in the duffel bag. “He is the most dangerous man you have ever met. We are fortunate to still be living.”

Mab grinned. “You flatter me, Morgan.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“From you, it is. You have evaded me long.”

Morgan raised the knife in threat. With plain command, he decided: “Sit down.”

Mab cast a glance over his shoulder, and stepped with grace to recline into the couch. Jiro marveled at how calm he was—like he wasn’t bound at knifepoint in the home of a man he had threatened to kill. His feet rested easily on the edge of the coffee table in rakish carelessness. “Better?”

Morgan didn’t answer. He bent and scooped the newly-procured weapons to set them with care alongside the others in the open canvas bag.

Jiro had hit his limit. “Alright. We’re here, and he’s defanged,” he said. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Morgan sighed, and did not immediately answer. “The truth will not be to your liking… This is your final opportunity to walk away, Jiro—you can walk out that door and forget any of this happened.”

Stubbornly, he shook his head. “You promised me answers. And I want them.”

Silence descended to weigh the room. At last, Morgan managed: “I am not…. from… here.”

The words were odd. “I know that. I always assumed you were from Poland or Serbia, somewhere like that.”

Morgan shook his head. “That is not what I mean. I am not from here—your world. My homeland will not be found in any atlas you have. It is… separate.”

Jiro didn’t like the sound of this. “What do you mean?”

Morgan hesitated once more.

Mab sighed in frustrated annoyance. “By the sun, Morgan, just tell him what we are. Jiro?” he confirmed, glancing to him.

Unable to negate it, Jiro nodded.

Mab took the reassurance. “We are fey, Jiro. Do you know what that means?”

He shook his head.

The dam broken, Morgan’s voice affirmed Mab’s confession. “You have many names for it, in your legends. Fairy, elf, Seelie. The stories have changed, and diminish us. But the origins of the myths are true.”

 _Elves_? Jiro shifted, not able to stomach what he was hearing. “You want me to believe you’re, what… some kind of superbeings? Aliens that crash landed here, or what?”

Morgan’s fist clenched. “Not aliens. We share the same earth, the same soil. But long ago, there was a separation. Our stories still tell of it, the rift that broke our realities apart. Now you mortals exist here, in this world. And the fey, our beasts and everything that belonged among us…. We belong on the other side of the rift. We call it Amaranth. That houndcat…”

“The what?”

“The houndcat,” Morgan repeated. “The creature that attacked us. It is a beast of Amaranth, our world. Did you not wonder why it appeared so strange?”

Jiro’s gut told him to argue, but calling to mind the vicious and primordial face of the beast that had attacked them earlier brought him back. It was true—he’d never seen any animal like it before. “It could be from the zoo,” he argued.

A thought flitted across Morgan’s features, and he glanced around, searching the room. With determined assurance, he bent and lifted a binder from the shelf of the nearest bookcase. It was black, and thick, filled with paper. Morgan brought it to him, flipping through the pages. “Jace has been there, Amaranth, and keeps sketches of what he remembers.” He found the page, and halted. Holding it out for Jiro’s inspection, “Does this seem familiar?”

With skepticism, Jiro surveyed the page.

His gut fell. There on the paper, sketched in eerie detail, was an exact replica of the cat that had attacked them, down to the blood-stained lips and primeval fangs. Beneath it, another creature crawled across the page: a bird, but with the face of a gargoyle and the talons of a Velociraptor. It sent a shiver down his spine despite the warmth of the air around him. Seeing the two, the beast that had attacked them and a creature obviously born of nightmare imagination, side by side was unnerving. Without asking, he turned the page—more creatures met him, wolf-like and feral. And in the bottom corner was a sketch of a woman; her auburn hair tumbled down her breast, masking the simple but elegant peasant dress she wore. Again, he flipped the page. It was a full page drawing of Morgan, spinning in the fighting style Jiro had seen earlier against the cat. It was beautiful artwork, but what caught his eye was Morgan’s clothing—the same leather leggings, chaps, boots and tunic that had looked so alien on Mab. The date on the drawing was from eight months ago.

It still wasn’t enough. Jiro didn’t believe in this kind of thing—fairies and demons and aliens, the supernatural. The only thing he trusted was his own two eyes, and he’d yet to encounter anything that proved the existence of something bigger or magical about the world. And this… Morgan wanted him to believe there was an alternate universe where creatures from the Stone Age crawled the night and men walked around armed to the teeth in fantasy costume?

“I would not lie to you,” Morgan’s voice rumbled through his doubt. “I have lived here in the human world for nearly two years. But before that… I was a fighter. A knight.”

Mab’s sharp-edged voice cut the air. “Before you broke your oath, you mean.”

Jiro glanced to Morgan in confusion.

No argument was in his friend’s eye. His fist clenched; “Why are you here, Mab?”

Mab’s quiet smile broadened. “My charge was to kill you. The Queen would see you dead, but I know your uses.”

Morgan’s russet brows furrowed at that. He left Jiro’s side, stepping to the edge of the carpet. “My uses?”

He nodded. “You were not the only knight to betray the Queen that night. There was another, one far more dangerous than you or your mortal pet. And I will let you live, if you help me to find him.”

With understanding, Morgan exhaled: “Hector.”

Jiro glanced from one man to the other—neither spoke. “Wait… Who is Hector?”

Mab’s voice darkened; a tone of earnest admonition pervaded his words. “Tell him, Morgan. Tell your friend how you trusted a _necromancer_.” The last word came as a snarl.

Morgan did not rise to the bait. “I did what I thought was best.”

“Your self-justification is what makes you blind,” Mab bit back. “Never could you accept grander things than your own conscience—it is what led to your exile, and why you bind me though you know if I meant to kill you, you would be dead already. We may no longer be fellow knights, but we are still friends.”

It was too far—Morgan’s heavy boots tromped the ground, approaching Mab in anger. “I am _not_ your friend, nor am I a knight. Just what do you intend, Mab? What is your game?”

The rush of anger did not frighten him. He looked up with earnest fire. “I want your aid to find Hector.”

Morgan frowned. “I have not seen the man since my last trip to Amaranth over two years ago. I do not know where he is, or what he planned.”

The news dampened the spark in Mab’s eye, but not his resolve. “Nevertheless, you will come with me to Amaranth and aid my hunt, or die by my hand. It is not a difficult decision.”

Morgan did not take well to being threatened. He lifted the knife before Mab’s eyes, pointed at him in cold menace. “Or, I could kill you and disappear into the cities of the mortal world. I am not afraid to end your life, Mab. Not after everything you have done.”

“It will not end with me, you must understand that,” Mab challenged. “If I do not return, the Queen will send another knight to finish you, and another, until you are found or Elram falls. She is a harsh mistress, and I cannot guarantee the next knight will be as level-minded as I am. If you are not found, there is nothing to stop the Queen from spilling blood to achieve her ends. Many would die—innocents—and even if you were never found, your fragile mortal city would pay dearly for your secrecy.”

The last words struck a blow unseen—Morgan’s shoulders tensed. He was left with no choice. He could run, and bring a reign of blood down upon the unsuspecting mortals of this city, or he could acquiesce to Mab’s demands and hope to escape before whatever trap Mab laid sprang.

Jiro sensed the weight in the air, even as his mind reeled with disbelief at everything he was hearing. By the seriousness, the conviction in their voices, he could only accept that this was real—Morgan, the man he’d known for months, was an elf. A fey. And by agreeing to stay, Jiro had put himself at the center of a political assassination.

“I tracked Hector to Quintos,” Mab’s low voice permeated the room, “to the royal city of Orulia. There, his path disappeared.”

Morgan frowned. “You want me to find what you cannot, and pick up the trail from there.”

“You knew him better than I,” Mab nodded. “And you are a better tracker in the wild. I know cities and people—you know the forest. Together, we will find the bastard and bring him down.”

Morgan fell silent, ruminating what he had heard.

It surprised Jiro. “You’re seriously considering this? Going off into the wild blue with a guy who wants to kill you?”

Morgan frowned. “I will call Jace and discuss the matter with him.”

Mab’s brows arched. “Jace? Your mortal pet?”

Morgan retreated, giving little weight to the taunt. “He is my lover, not a pet. And I will not leave without consulting him.”

Mab snorted. “You never gave me such courtesy, when we were lovers.”

Morgan silenced him with a growl. “You never deserved it.”

The words looked to have stung, but the stricken expression on Mab’s face slid quickly beneath a stern mask. He settled more definitely into the couch with a huff. “Get on with it, then. Time is not our ally.”

Morgan glanced to Jiro. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Jiro nodded and took Morgan’s place near Mab, standing over him with stern focus. His mind whirled with the images, the implications, all the truth of what he had heard over the last few minutes. He didn’t want to believe it; but then, what else could he do? He knew Morgan too well to think him delusional. He’d been a calm, even-headed man for as long as Jiro had known him, and he was no different now. Mab seemed to take himself seriously as well, no matter how arrogant and manipulative his words had been. Even now, his clear jade eyes flitted around the apartment with relaxed nonchalance, completely calm while bound and at their mercy.

Jiro held the knife tighter.

....

Morgan stepped through the archway into the darkness of the small kitchen. Even in the shadows, he could see no threats were here, and in moments, he’d pulled the phone from his pocket. His time in the mortal world had been instructive—at first even basic faucets had foiled him, but now he navigated mortal instruments with ease. Six months ago he had finally given in to Jace’s request and accepted a cell phone; gratitude welled in him now for the lifeline. He pressed the digits with calm certainty, then waited for the answer.

After only a few rings, a voice on the other end picked up. Gentle, with a hint of concern. “Morgan? What’s wrong?”

Despite his worry, Morgan’s body relaxed. Hearing Jace’s voice brought center to his thoughts, and relief to his heart. But he didn't linger over pleasantries. “It has happened, Jace. She found us.”

The silence on the other end spoke surprise. “She… Who did she send?”

He hesitated. “Mab.”

An exhale betrayed more than Jace could have ever said in words. They’d spoken of this, in the months after their escape: the possibility they might be hunted. Morgan made certain his lover understood the implications and severity of every possible scenario, so if the time came they would be ready. More than once Mab’s name had surfaced—the worst scenario of all. For while Morgan knew the nature of every knight the Queen had ruled for centuries, he could not predict Mab. Like a volatile firestorm, his whims could turn in the blink of an eye. And Morgan would be hard-pressed to stop him.

“Jace, you must listen,” he said. “Mab offered me a deal. I return to Amaranth with him, and help him hunt Hector, in exchange for my life.”

“…Do you think he means it?” Jace wondered.

Morgan’s jaw clenched. “No. He will attempt to kill me as soon as the task is done, and you if he can find you.” He inhaled deeply, and confessed, “I… I cannot run from this, love. If the Queen believes she can find us, it will not stop with Mab. Killing him will only ensure she sends another to finish the task, and another. It is only a matter of time before the people here are caught in the crossfire. I will not let others die for my actions.”

Jace accepted this with a weary breath. “Alright… What do we do?”

“Stay where you are—your mother’s house should be safe enough. I will return to Amaranth with him, and come home when I am able.”

Like a knee-jerk reaction, Jace countered, “No. If you’re going back, so am I.”

“Please, Jace—”

“I won’t leave you, Morgan. You should know that by now. Whatever we have to face, I’ll be there.”

“My duty now is to keep you safe—”

“We’ve been through hell and back together, hon. Turns out we aren’t done, and that’s okay. We’ll get through this. But it’s going to be together.”

With a restless sigh, Morgan felt the walls within crumble.

And Jace knew the matter was settled. “Now… Where are you guys headed?”

....

Mab reclined easily on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table. The mortal man—Jiro—stood beside him in a serious manner Mab found altogether ridiculous. Morgan had lost his touch if he thought a pathetic whelp like this would stop him, should he intend ill. He had hoped to find Morgan in a state of utter despondency, withering away in this prison of a world. He hoped for an easy target. The state of affairs seemed to be even worse than he thought:  Morgan had assimilated. He trusted mortals over his own kind, and spoke of Amaranth as a nightmare. Frustration boiled beneath the surface of Mab’s certainty. It is not what he had hoped, but plans changed. It was his task to change with them. Morgan needed to trust him—and for that, he needed a reason.

With deliberate air, he turned his attention to the mortal in front of him. Jiro was well-made, for a mortal cur. Even beneath the loose clothing, Mab could see the bulk of trained muscle, and he held the knife with confidence and familiarity. Curiosity rose in Mab’s chest as he surveyed the pale curve of the man’s throat, the angular features of his face and firm press of his lips. His features were exotic, different than anything Mab had ever seen, and handsome. A strange design, an artistic series of writing scrawled across the skin on the left side of his neck—the language of his people, perhaps? Bringing his gaze upward, Mab met coal-dark eyes that stared back at him with unwavering strength.

It came as a surprise: the mortal did not fear him. If he had, Mab knew there would be vulnerability in those eyes, and a tenseness to the muscles in his neck, as if straining to maintain even breath. But Jiro stood calm, centered. The fire in his eyes was one of harshness and courage.

Mab’s lips quirked in an amused smirk. With careful grace, he felt for the notch on his belt that released his hidden blade.

....

Jiro stared down on his prisoner, watching for any sign of movement that would betray an escape attempt. Mab remained completely settled, letting his gaze wander over the quaint little room, taking it all in with a look of mixed disdain and disinterest. No movement betrayed unrest—calm and relaxed.

Then Mab’s eye caught something across the room, and his brows furrowed.

Concerned, Jiro glanced back.

No sooner had he than Mab sprang. His body collided with Jiro’s, pushing him to the floor. The knife in Jiro’s hand went flying with a sharp chop at his wrist that nearly broke bone. Jiro cursed—Mab’s hands were free. He twisted beneath his attacker, trying to shove the other man off; it was no use. Mab had him pinned. The fey man smiled down on him with triumphant pleasure. Mab’s hair hung down in a dark curtain, tickling his skin.

As Mab grinned above him, Jiro felt a very different sort of heat trickle through his psyche—Mab’s thighs pressed him firmly, and his breath tumbled down across Jiro’s neck, hot and ghostly. The full weight of his body rested on Jiro’s hips, and Mab pinned his hands on either side of his head. It was solid, heavy—somehow, Jiro expected this man to be otherworldly, less than tangible. But his body was very real.

For a split-second, Jiro froze.

Puzzled at the sudden shift, Mab paused. His eyes darted across Jiro’s face to his body, down to Jiro’s crotch half hidden beneath his own hips.

Then understanding and curiosity lit his smile. “Oh…” he breathed, like a cat who had found a new toy. “That is interesting.”

Anger and shame flew through Jiro’s chest; fighting the heat rising in his cheeks, he struggled again, trying to free himself. It only brought friction between them, a sensation that added fuel to his already half-hard cock. A mix of two panics jolted him like adrenaline, knowing Mab could kill him at any moment, and fear of what his own body betrayed. “I’m not like that, you bastard. Get off!”

Mab opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment large boots tromped across the carpet behind them. Morgan swooped in, throwing a hand around Mab’s neck, scooping him up and slamming him into the wall once more.

“That was the wrong move, Mab.”

Jiro rolled to his feet, trying to hide the fear and shame blasting through his chest.

Clouds rolled in Mab’s eyes, and gears were turning. But he spoke with casual ease. “I was merely proving my point—I could have killed that boy just now, but he is unharmed. That should prove my intention.”

Morgan cursed under his breath, but released him. “It proves you have no intention of listening,” he said. “And in this world, that makes you more dangerous…” He sighed. “Jace has agreed it is best to aid you,” he added, “but you go unarmed until we return to Amaranth. Jace will join us at the mirror.”

Jiro’s mind warred in a whirlwind—but one thing he knew. “I’m coming with you.”

Both fey men turned to look at him in surprise.

Steadying his nerves, Jiro explained with growing determination: “I’m set to leave anyway… Everyone thinks I’m going to Europe.”

Morgan shook his head. “You do not know what you volunteer for, Jiro. You do not know Amaranth. That houndcat was the least of what you will find in the wilds of Quintos. And if the fey there discover you are a human, even I may not be able to protect you.”

It only steeled Jiro’s resolve. “You’re going to need all the help you can get. And this guy,” he glanced uneasily to Mab, “…you won’t be able to take your eye off him. You know that. You need a second set of eyes. And no offense, but I doubt Jace has the training I do. I’m ready for this.”

It was a solid argument, and it weighed Morgan’s shoulders. He sighed, eyes wandering over the knickknacks and clutter of the little apartment. There was a sadness in it, a regret.

“Please,” Jiro added. “Let me help you.”

Mab’s cold eyes still looked to him with curiosity, like a wolf. “I think he would be useful, Morgan.”

Morgan pinned him in an angry stare. He knew what useful meant to Mab. But in the end, the benefits outweighed the risk. He nodded in agreement. “You may come. But know I cannot take responsibility for your life. None of us may come out of this alive.”

Jiro accepted this easily. “I can handle myself.”

Mab stepped forward. “We ought to leave as soon as possible. It is a two week journey to Orulia, and we do not have time to spare.”

For the first time in hours, a smile lit Morgan’s face. “Oh, we can do better than that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his protest, Mab’s trick seemed to work, and Morgan did not bind his hands again, letting him roam the apartment while he hastily packed two duffel bags with necessities. If Jiro needed any more proof, it came when Morgan slid open the bottom drawer of his dresser to reveal a near exact replica of Mab’s outfit, worn and scarred with years of use. He did not put it on, but packed the tunic, leggings and chaps at the bottom of the bag, along with two large daggers and an assortment of other knives and hunting gear that looked to be right out of the twelfth century.

“Shit…” Jiro commented, seeing them all assembled. “You guys don’t mess around, do you?”

It brought only a frown from Morgan, who continued packing.

Jiro was charged with putting together the remaining bag—bits of clothing Morgan threw at him, a handful of granola bars, bottled water and a second survival kit. When it was all assembled, Mab looked on the collection with a frown. “We will not be able to carry all of this across country.”

“We won’t need to,” Morgan decided. “We’ll take the car.”

“The… car?” Mab’s brows rose.

The comment led them out the door, toting their packs. The keys jangled, a herald of Morgan’s final farewell as he locked the door behind them. Mab descended the stairs first, followed by Jiro. Morgan stood at the door for one silent moment, staring at it as though he would never return. Then, with a nod, he turned and descended behind the others.

As they spilled out into the parking lot, he stepped to the fore, leading toward a small black four-door parked to the left. Morgan pressed the key, and the lights flashed. Mab nearly jumped from his skin.

It was too much—Jiro burst out laughing. “Jesus, man… It’s just a car.”

Mab did not comprehend. He shifted nervously. “Hold… You mean you intend for us to enter this… thing?”

“You must have seen them on the streets,” Morgan encouraged, popping the trunk. He slung his bag in, and took Jiro’s as he came forward, adding it to the stack. “They are safe, if you understand how to operate one. Like a wagon without horses. They use a special sort of fuel to propel them.”

It was all gibberish to Mab. He hesitated for a moment, then came forward, tossing his bag in beside the rest. “And it will take us to a mirror?”

Morgan slammed the trunk. “This world is a mirror image of our own—Quintos lies in the same land as Michigan, on the other side of the rift. We drive as close as we are able, then search for a mirror.” 

Jiro shook his head, but followed Morgan’s lead. “We can take turns driving, and get there sooner. Jace is meeting us in Michigan?”

Morgan stepped toward the driver’s side. “I will call him with our location when we arrive. He said he would book a flight for tomorrow.”

Satisfied with the logistics, Jiro slid into the passenger seat. He glanced over his shoulder to find Mab still standing beside the car with a look of mixed confusion and frustration.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jiro cursed. He reached back and pulled the handle of the back door. “Get the fuck in, genius.”

Angry at the insult, Mab nevertheless seized the door and slid in then slammed it shut behind him.

Morgan was smirking. “You must keep eyes on us, Mab. Follow what we do. First rule of a journeying knight.” He turned the key in the ignition. The car roared to life, and with careful precision, Morgan rolled out of the parking space.

“Journeying knight?” Jiro said curiously.

Morgan shifted into drive. “Those chosen by the Queen to venture into your world, to hunt the beasts that at times escape.” They rolled down the alley, and Morgan accelerated to join the roll of traffic. This late, old town was bustling with college kids flooding to the bars and enjoying the night life. “It was my purpose, before I met Jace. I spent years observing your world before I knew enough to walk among you.”

Mab’s voice drifted from the back. “It was knowledge that was your undoing. Abandoning your Queen for… for this.”

Morgan’s jaw set sternly, but he did not answer, focusing on the road before him.

Jiro was not so reserved. “You keep talking about a queen… Like, the Queen of the Fairies?”

Mab answered. “She is the sovereign queen of Elram, our kingdom. There are many such kingdoms in Amaranth, but few as powerful, or vast. You were foolish to leave, Morgan. Betraying her is folly.”

“I did what I thought best,” Morgan said quietly. “And for that, my queen sends an ambassador to kill me.”

Jiro glanced back to Mab. “Ambassador?”

“It is what we call them,” Morgan growled darkly. “Those who kill others for sport.”

Mab’s smile had returned. “You hunted beasts to keep the realm safe, Morgan. I hunt men for the same purpose. It is no different.”

“Like a bounty hunter?” Jiro tried. “Hunting criminals?”

“Political criminals,” Morgan cursed. “Those who opposed the Queen. How many have you killed, Mab?” he asked darkly. “How often did you know the true reason?”

Mab leaned back, settling in more definitely with casual grace. “I did not need to know the reason. They were enemies of the Queen and so a threat to our kingdom. Unlike you, I have not forsaken my homeland.”

Had they been standing, Jiro was fairly certain Morgan would have decked Mab. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel harder. “I would not fight her knights—my own comrades—who had no knowledge of her crimes.”

“How noble,” Mab replied with sarcasm. “And did you think Amaranth would just disappear, when you left? Did you think it would never return to haunt you?”

Lights slid across Morgan’s visage, patches of a civilization to which he did not belong. “…I hoped.”

They said nothing more for a long time.

....

Once they hit the interstate, the miles began to fly by. Jiro rested in the passenger seat, and when he felt his eyes grow heavy, he allowed sleep to creep upon him. After a wild night, he was grateful for the rest.

When he woke, the familiar terrain of Northern Colorado had gone. In its place, miles of unbroken plain spread in either direction. The pale light of dawn warmed the darker hues of night. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, stretching his muscles. Morgan still sat at the wheel, staring with unerring concentration on the miles of empty road before him. On reflex, Jiro glanced to the back seat—Mab had spread out, his eyes closed in sleep. In the pale light of dawn, his features sloped like alabaster stone, accented against the ebony of his hair and gentle curve of his hands. Caught for a moment in silent admiration, Jiro had to remind himself this was an assassin who’d threatened to murder him. Memory of the night before, being pinned underneath Mab’s strong body, brought a pang of fear—he turned, trying to banish the memory with the sight of landscape and grass.

Morgan sensed his discomfort. They rested in silence for a moment, remnants of the unspoken camaraderie that had so often bound them. It was nice—Jiro wasn’t sure if he had the energy to face the thoughts still rolling in his mind.

“We will reach the Iowa border soon,” Morgan offered quietly.

A nod of approval. “We’re making good time… You must have pushed pretty hard all night.”

A quirk of a smile. “There were few other cars on the road. I kept a high speed.”

He knew what that meant. “You’re lucky you weren’t pulled over. Do you even have an ID? I mean, you need a social security number for that, and I’m guessing you don’t have one.”

“Jace procured me a false ID when I first decided to stay here. It’s been useful, though likely would not stand up to close inspection.”

The thought unsettled him. It was still sinking in, really—just how out of place Morgan was in this world. “I can drive for a while, if you’re ready to switch.”

“I am beginning to feel tired. Perhaps it would be best to stop for breakfast, and switch then.”

It was a sound suggestion, and Jiro fell into another silence. Finally, “You really plan on doing this? Helping him kill this necromancer guy?”

Cool and calm, Morgan answered, “I plan to find Hector, with Mab’s help. After that… I’m not sure.”

“Who is he, anyway? Why is Mab so set on finding him?”

Morgan’s voice fell quietly. “Hector is… was… the Queen’s favorite, on a time. Rumors have always burned of his involvement with darker things—his tasks would take him away from the city for weeks on end, and he would be seen entering the gates after nightfall. We all understood he most held the Queen’s favor.”

Jiro’s brows rose. “What happened?”

Morgan shrugged. “In truth, I suspect he discovered the Queen’s treachery long before any other. It could never be explained, but overnight he lost faith in her. He honored his oath, or so we thought, but he no longer served her with devotion. He was never the most pleasant of men, but he became… darker, after that. Chaotic, even for a fey. None of the other knights trusted him, and why the Queen continued to do so was a mystery. Knowing what I do now, I would hazard to guess she feared him—feared what he knew.”

“What do you mean?”

Morgan glanced over his shoulder, to Mab’s slumbering form. “When Jace first came to Amaranth two years ago, he was imprisoned unjustly by the Queen. Hector came to my aid, and together we infiltrated her tower to rescue him. Once there, we found another prisoner—a young boy. The Queen’s own brother.”

Jiro’s eyes widened. “Damn… That’s harsh.”

A knowing glint flashed in Morgan’s eye. “Yes. He was said to have died in an accident years before, but instead she held the boy prisoner in her gardens, bound by magic. Hector had known the truth of the treachery for many years, and used my rescue of Jace to free the boy as well. He will use the Queen’s brother to start a revolution, if he has not already. That boy is proof of the Queen’s foul nature, and he will use him as such. Others will rally to his banner, and…”

“…Down with the queen,” Jiro concluded. The grandeur of the situation began to sink in—just what he had agreed to assist.

“I am no threat,” Morgan explained, “just an exile. Hector is the more dangerous foe. That is why Mab is willing to bargain with me, to reach Hector.”

“Yeah…” Something had been bothering Jiro since last night—the glint in Mab’s eye when Morgan knelt before him, and the comment. “So… No offense, or anything. But you and Mab…”

Morgan understood. With a suppressed growl, he answered, “We were lovers, once. Long ago. Before he chose to accept the title of ambassador.”

The disgust in Morgan’s voice answered his second question. “That’s when you ended it?”

“There never was an end. One morning I went to meet him, and found his home empty. Only later I discovered he had accepted the Queen’s charge.”

“So last night… That was the first you’d seen of him, since he packed up without saying goodbye?”

It was not a line of thought Morgan was comfortable exploring. “Whatever happened between us, it ended that day. It was a fey match—passionate but easily broken. What I have with Jace, that is real. You need not worry about me falling prey to Mab’s charm.”

It was a joke, one Jiro appreciated. Mab had charisma, and spunk, but his arrogance was less than endearing. He had all the grace of a hungry wolf. Something deep down told Jiro he needed to worry more about himself than Morgan when it came to Mab, but he buried it beneath an amused smile. A sign rolled past, lit dimly in the growing dawn. “Underwood, two miles,” he said cheerfully.

“We’ll stop for breakfast there, and change guard,” Morgan agreed.

....

Underwood was a small town with a gas station, a Denny’s, and a Motel 6. Morgan pulled into the gas station and parked at a pump. Jiro surveyed it all with suspicion—one thing about traveling with two fey, neither of which had real ID, was it made him more alert for trouble. On top of that, Jiro’s own license still sat on the nightstand of a motel room back in Colorado. He had no idea how they would explain themselves if they were pulled over with a trunk full of knives and costumes. There wasn’t much traffic yet, though, and he breathed a sigh of relief for that.

Morgan put the car in park. He flipped open the glove box and pulled out his wallet. “I will take care of gas, if you grab us something to eat. Just a burrito would suffice for me, and something for Mab.” He dished out a twenty dollar bill.

Jiro nodded, taking the money and slipping out the door. The air outside was chill with the threat of winter, and he breathed deeply, letting it wake him. Whatever else he got, coffee was definitely on the menu. He stepped up onto the curb and into the store.

A bell announced his arrival. A gruff looking older man stood behind the counter stacking cigarettes; Jiro nodded at him as he made his way into the back of the store. He hadn’t realized it until he’d gotten out, but his bladder was killing him. Searching for the sign, he located the restrooms near the back. He pushed the door open. The size of the bathroom was bigger than most, with a full three urinals and a stall. He stepped toward the nearest urinal and unzipped his pants.

He heard the door open behind him and swing shut. He didn’t pay it any attention, until he saw a figure in leather chaps and black hair step up beside him. Defying every code of bathroom conduct, he glanced over—Mab stood with casual grace, unlacing the leather ties at his crotch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jiro swallowed nervously. He tried to focus back on his own urinal, but found his eyes drawn back to Mab’s hand, and what it now held.

A gentle chuckle lilted from Mab’s lips, and Jiro’s eyes darted up. Mab looked across at him with an amused smile. “Enjoying the view?”

Flustered, Jiro turned his gaze back, putting concentrated effort on keeping the heat from pooling in his gut. It didn’t work; he felt himself getting hard just trying not to think about what he’d seen. Fear set in, the familiar panic standing on the brink of something he didn’t want to feel. He finished quickly, trying to hide the evidence behind his zipper.

“No?” Mab said in further tease. “That is a shame.”

Fighting to keep his voice low, Jiro warned, “I don’t know what the hell your game is, but you can fuck off. I’m not like that.”

Without warning Mab swept in, pressing warm lips to his neck. A jolt reaction forced him away, but Mab countered, forcing their bodies together. Unwilling to cry out, Jiro grabbed Mab by the hair, yanking his head back. Bodies pressed close now; with uncomfortable fear and desire he felt Mab’s cock press in hard heat against his hip. Jiro’s heart raced, a mix of adrenaline and lust. Instinct told him to bite back, throw Mab into the wall and feel everything Mab dared him to, everything he’d kept bottled and shut down for years. But reason told him he was locked in a grapple with a man who could snap his neck. Mab’s arms around his hips held him close in an iron grip. Jiro yanked his hair harder, twisting his head back until the pale skin of Mab’s neck was completely exposed, inches from his teeth. He tried to control his breath, murmuring,

“I don’t know about Amaranth, but in this world, feeling up a stranger uninvited will get your ass kicked…” He wet his lips, forcing himself to continue. “Now get this straight: I’m not interested. You so much as look at me wrong again, and I’ll tell Morgan you attacked me. I’ll make sure you get left in a ditch somewhere. And then you can kiss your twisted plans goodbye. Understood?”

Mab hesitated, breathing the silence. His cock throbbed against Jiro’s hip, still exposed. But another yank to his hair brought a wince, and then a sigh. His grip loosened and released. With a tone of disappointment, he conceded, “I understand.”

“Good,” Jiro growled. He let his fingers slip from the thick mane of hair, even as he savored the feel of it against his skin. More than ever, he wanted to sink his teeth into the pale skin of Mab’s neck and taste him. But he couldn’t—he wouldn’t let himself feel that. “I’m going to wash my hands and walk out of here. And you’re going to wait a full two minutes before you follow me. The last thing I need is that clerk thinking we’re up to something in here.” He turned, not caring if Mab agreed or not. A quick wash in the sink and he walked away, letting the door of the restroom swing shut definitively behind him.

....

The remainder of their stop in Underwood passed without incident. Jiro grabbed a stack of breakfast burritos and a large coffee, paying the man at the register while trying to appear casual. It took effort not to flinch as Mab walked past on his way back to the car; it also took effort to keep his gaze fixed on the back of Mab’s head as he followed him out to the door. Memory of that body, hard and hot, against his own took up residence in his mind. He shook his head, banishing the unwelcome thoughts before Morgan caught his dismay.

“Is all well?” Morgan asked once they reached him.

“Wonderful,” Mab answered as he opened the passenger door—casual, like a human who had done it every day for years. “It was the cleanest public washroom I have ever seen.”

Surprised, Jiro tore his gaze away to meet Morgan’s own. “They weren’t that great.” He crossed to the driver’s side, dumping the burritos in the center console and taking care to lodge his coffee in the cup holder. He frowned when he realized Mab was now riding shotgun, and Morgan had taken the backseat. It made sense—Morgan needed sleep. But it meant he was alone with Mab in the front. Casting a cursory glance at the ambassador, he found only indifference as Mab took a breakfast burrito from the stack.

Morgan shut the back door with care, and Jiro turned the keys in the ignition. Checking the map a final time, he swallowed his misgivings and pulled away from the pump, then back onto the highway. In short order, Morgan folded himself up across the seat and fell asleep. The sun climbed in the sky, spreading its warmth across fields of corn and fallow land. He kept the radio low to allow Morgan to sleep more comfortably, and the hum of the engine added its murmur, creating a kind of cadence to their journey. Mab seemed content in the silence, allowing it rest like a curtain between them. Jiro tried to focus on the road in front of him, the signs rolling by, out of state license plates, anything. But time and again, he found his gaze pulled in the direction of the passenger seat, to the masculine profile taking in the scenery and curve of his muscled chest beneath his tunic, the drum of fingers on his thigh.

Finally, when he couldn’t take the silence any longer, Jiro cleared his throat. “So… You’re an assassin.”

Mab glanced over, curiosity piqued. “I am the Queen’s hunter.”

“And you hunt people,” Jiro affirmed. “Here, we call that an assassin.”

“Assassin…” he repeated quietly, relishing the alliteration. “I like this word.”

Despite the context, Jiro had to suppress a smile. “It does sound more impressive than _ambassador_.”

He shrugged. “The Queen’s ambassador is feared enough. All I need do is speak the word, and a baron will turn over any citizen I ask. Better to comply than invite the Queen’s displeasure.”

It didn’t sit right with him. “And people are okay with that? With the queen of your country having a killer on call?”

Mab shook his head. “I provide a necessary arm of her rule—I am the justice for those who have committed atrocities, those who have already killed or tortured, those who have openly defied the queen and sworn to destroy her. Queen Loraine has brought an era of peace and abundance to a war-torn land. People like Hector, and Morgan… They don’t see past their own noses, or know what it takes to keep a kingdom in peace. I may be an assassin, but it is not without conscience.”

“But you said yourself, you don’t always know the reason she sends you after people. What if they’re really just normal people who managed to piss her off?”

“You keep using that phrase… _Piss off_. What does it mean?”

“It means to make someone angry. You piss me off. I’m pissed off.”

“But piss… It means to urinate.”

He rolled his eyes. “God, don’t try to analyze it. Half of what we say here doesn’t make literal sense. You just have to know.”

He frowned. “That seems unnecessarily complicated.”

“Well, you’ve got to have some slang in your world, too. What are some things you say, that don’t make sense?”

Mab sat in silence for a moment, then offered, “Cat’s recluse. Making a cat’s recluse.”

Jiro held back a laugh. “Seriously? What does it mean?”

“To be fearful, or to hide.”

“Huh…” He clicked on the blinker, passing a slow-rumbling truck. “And do you ever… make a cat’s recluse?”

Mab’s smile widened. “Hardly. My sister would never allow me to be afraid, when I was young. I do not think I have ever unlearned it.”

It was a glimpse of something, of humanity, beneath Mab’s arrogant and self-assured mask.

“She died two years ago, when Morgan left. She was among the knights sent after him and Hector. She never returned.”

“…I’m sorry.”

Mab shrugged it off. “She was merciless and killed many others in her time. I do not miss her.”

“She was your sister.”

“The fey… We do not have strong bonds in our families. The world is too unpredictable, has too much chaos. Some siblings remain close, but most drift like leaves in the wind and forget they were ever kin. We were the latter. Our parents were both dead by the time she came of age. I was young, and she raised me with an iron fist. Once I was grown, she kicked me onto the street without so much as a bread knife for protection. I made something of myself and joined the Queen’s service. I did well. I did not hear from Rinna until rumors of my romance with Morgan reached her ears. Then she arrived on my doorstep and threatened to kill me.”

“You mean, because you were sleeping with a guy?”

Mab’s face wrinkled in skeptical confusion. “Because she wanted Morgan for herself.”

Yikes. “I’m sure that went over well.”

He shrugged. “At that point, I was equal in skill with her, so I told her she could attempt to kill me if she liked, but Morgan would never be interested in her filthy cunt. I slammed the door behind her, and never saw her again.”

“Jesus…” Jiro cursed.

“Would you have done differently? If your sister threatened you with death?”

Jiro couldn’t answer. “I… I don’t really have a family, or sisters. Dad took off with my brother when I was little. My mom died when I was thirteen. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

He frowned. Silence fell between them, until Mab mustered, “Is it normal for mortal women to be angry at men for having sex?”

It was such an out of place question, Jiro didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“When I said my sister was angry with me, you assumed it was because I was bedding a man. Is that normal, in this world? Do women dislike it when a man prefers men?”

 _Holy shit_. The enormity of Mab’s ignorance was suddenly overwhelming. “It’s… I mean, it’s not just women. A lot of people think two guys having sex is wrong. Especially other guys.”

It only confused him more. “It is no different than bedding a woman. It is not to every man’s liking, I understand. But why would men find it wrong?”

He swallowed a lump of nervousness. “Well… A lot of guys think it makes you weak. Like you’re not a real man.”

Mab actually laughed. “In truth? They earnestly believe bedding a man is a sign of weakness?”

Jiro nodded uncomfortably.

“Having a man in your bed can be a greater challenge, not a lesser one... Men are stronger and are more prone to tests of strength. Being penetrated itself takes courage and stamina. It is a sign of strength, not weakness. You must be joking,” he laughed again.

The argument impressed Jiro, while simultaneously discomforting him at discussing it so frankly. “Not really. Don’t straight men in Amaranth make it hard, y’know, for guys like you and Morgan?”

He was puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘straight men’?”

“You know, guys who like women. They’re called straight, and guys who like other guys are called gay.”

It amused him. “One cannot be both?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “There are bisexual guys, I guess. But mostly it's one or the other.”

“Huh…” Mab looked out the window as if seeing it all for the first time. “You mortals… You put a title to everything. It muddles things instead of making them clearer. In Amaranth, we do not put such structure to it. A man beds who he wants at the moment, and if the next day he desires something else, he pursues that. There are many who take company with men, at one time or another, just as they do with women. A man is judged on his skill. Who he beds is inconsequential.”

It was an alien concept to Jiro, and as the air around them filled with silence, he felt his mind turning in wheels, trying to adjust to the society Mab described.

“…And you?” Mab murmured. “What title do you attribute yourself?”

It was the wall. But he wasn’t ready to face the reality of what had happened in the gas station bathroom, how his body reacted to Mab’s closeness. “I… I’m straight.”

He expected a sarcastic response, for Mab to challenge him with what he already knew. But for once, he accepted the lie and settled more firmly into the seat. “Then it must be strange for you.”

Jiro looked at him skeptically.

With a joking smile, Mab explained: “You are woefully outnumbered on this journey.”

Shaking his head at the other’s audacity, he turned his eyes back to the road, hiding the deeper turmoil within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...There's a lot Jiro's not saying in this conversation. Apart from his painfully limited understanding of human sexuality (he's spent years intentionally avoiding a deeper grasp of it), this is just the tip of the iceberg. More of Jiro's own personal thoughts and feelings will come out in future chapters. Right now, keeping the conversation abstract is a safety buffer for him.
> 
> You can be sure Mab's paying attention, though, and reading between the lines.


	4. Chapter 4

They made good time across Iowa and soon hit Illinois. Mab seemed content to rest in the silence after their conversation, taking in the countryside as it slid by. When the tank was near empty, Jiro pulled off into another gas station. Morgan woke as soon as the engine cut off, assessing the late afternoon landscape with astute clarity.

“How far have we come?” he asked.

“We passed through Davenport about an hour ago. It’s only a few more hours to the Michigan border, and past that, we’ll have to decide where we’re stopping.”

Morgan nodded, blinking the weariness from his eyes. He pulled the map from beneath the seat, and spread it before him. “There are national parks in the northeast… That may be our best course. Here.” His finger followed the trail of highway up to a small dot in the center of the state. “Grayling. It is on the border of the forest. We could park there, and go into the forest on foot.”

“Except we’ll get there in the middle of the night. We may have to find a motel to stay at. And doesn’t Jace need to find us?”

Morgan nodded, and reached for his phone. “I will let him know our destination. His flight should have landed in Battle Creek a few hours ago.”

Jiro agreed and folded the map.

....

As predicted, they rolled into the small town of Grayling just after midnight. The streets were dark, lit only by a few lone streetlamps. As if waiting to welcome them, the lit sign of a Motel 6 glowed through the darkness. Jiro never thought he’d be happier to see a vacancy sign—the last few hours, Mab had become increasingly more restless and irritable. A true soul of Amaranth, he was unused to sitting for such long stretches and proclaimed waspishly he would have preferred the discomfort of a horseback ride across country than sitting motionless for over twenty four hours.

Morgan was more contained, though when they rolled into an empty parking spot, he wasted little time in setting the emergency brake and climbing out. Jiro joined him, taking in the surrounding spread of flat white motel doors and the rise of pines behind the building, blocking out the stars. It was a clear night, and cold. Jiro pulled his jacket more closely around him.

“This is the place,” Morgan said quietly. “Jace arrived a half hour ago.” He glanced down to the phone, which seemed small in his massive grip. “Number 39.”

Jiro glanced around and spotted it in the corner. “Over here,” he said. He helped Morgan grab the bags, handing the one without weapons to Mab. He may have been placid on the trip, but Jiro did not forget that he’d yet to see what Mab was capable of. Morgan locked the car, and they walked in a group to the door.

A quiet knock echoed through the night as Morgan rapped the door. As if waiting, it flew open.

Jace stood in the doorway. He was lean, and nearly a full head shorter than Morgan himself, with rich olive skin that made Jiro think of the Costa Ricans he used to run with in the L.A. fight scene. His earnest eyes warmed at the sight of them; Jiro was surprised to find him dressed more for the weather than they were in jeans, a long-sleeved camping shirt, and Doc Martens.

At the sight of him, Morgan rushed forward and scooped him into a large hug without prequel.

“Jace!” He spun him out of the way, letting the others enter without releasing his hold on his boyfriend.

Jace’s smile answered. “Thank god…” he breathed. “You scared the shit out of me, calling like that.”

Jiro smiled gently at their antics and kept a close eye on Mab. He seemed curious, watching the two of them. Jiro took quick survey of the room; two full-sized beds filled the small space, with a bathroom on the left. He dropped his bag next to Mab’s and allowed Morgan and Jace their moment. After all that he had learned, their relationship seemed even stranger—here was Morgan, the elven hunter, head over heels in love with a quiet, gentle-natured artist. The bear of a man he knew softened noticeably in Jace’s presence, like the other half of his soul had been returned. It impressed Jiro with sadness—he’d never known anything like that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Love made you vulnerable, and if he had learned anything, it was that being vulnerable made life harder, not easier.

Morgan had no such inhibition. He smothered Jace in a kiss with full commitment.

Mab’s smile quirked. “So this is your mortal…”

As if just realizing they weren’t alone, Jace’s eyes turned to the strange fey now standing at the edge of the nearest bed. Morgan reluctantly let him go, though he kept an arm around his waist.

“Jace, this is Mab. Rinna’s brother.”

The association didn’t mean anything to Jiro, but Jace’s brows furrowed. “He looks like her.”

Mab grinned. “That is a compliment, but by your frown, I would say your relationship with her was a poor one.”

“She tried to kill me,” Jace said simply.

Mab nodded. “She tried to kill many people. Though in your case,” his gaze slid to Morgan, “I would say it was likely a focused effort. If it comforts you, she wanted to kill me for bedding him, too.”

Jace did not appreciate the attempt at familiarity; his frown only darkened.

Morgan stepped in. “We will stay here tonight and enter the park in the morning. Once there, we can find a mirror to take us through to Amaranth. We will come out in the middle of Quintos, and it will be a short journey to the royal city.”

Mab smiled. “For as detestable as your cars are, it greatly shortened our journey. That would have been quite a trek, on horseback.” He sat back on the bed, and reclined with a sigh. “Though I feel the need to walk more. My legs were not made to sit for such long intervals.”

Morgan growled, “You will stay here in this room until we leave tomorrow. If you attempt to leave, you will find yourself bound and stuffed in the closet.”

An ebony brow arched. “Then I suppose I shall have to suffer a while longer.”

Jiro didn’t say it, but he agreed with Mab. After the long drive, he was ready to move. He looked forward to the morning and finally getting to see what had been the subject of imagination for the last two days.

....

The night passed quietly. Morgan and Jiro took shifts, not trusting to fall asleep both at once while Mab was among them. It was a long night. During Jiro’s shift he sat in a chair, facing the bed where Mab lay. The caution he impressed the others with did not seem to affect the ambassador, and in minutes he had fallen into a restful sleep. Looking down at him, seeing the silent rise and fall of his chest, the way his heavy eyelashes rested on his cheeks, the untroubled press of his lips, Jiro felt the growing admiration return—he really was a striking man. And when his eyes closed in sleep, the fire, intensity and mocking smile disappeared; he almost seemed… human. Memories of those lips on his skin and the hard cock, large enough to make Jiro pause, jabbing into his hip through his jeans, filled his mind. He tried to banish them, but in the quiet stillness of the motel room, he had less energy to dispel them as he had during the drive.

He didn’t understand Mab’s game, coming on to him like that. He was certain it wasn’t romance; the thought of Mab looking at anyone like that was almost inconceivable. He was a fire storm, razing everything in his path and leaving only charred earth behind. Jiro had known men like him before, though admittedly none with the undercurrent of fey aggression Mab possessed. But still, he knew the type—doing whatever gave them pleasure in the moment, then moving on just as quickly to the next challenge.

There were some questions he didn't want answers to.

He was grateful when four o’clock came, and he woke Morgan from where he slept in Jace’s arms. He hesitated, not wanting to break the two apart. But all it took was gentle touch on Morgan’s shoulder, and the man’s eyes flew open. It startled Jiro, but in a quiet whisper, he reminded, “Your turn.”

Morgan nodded and slid from Jace’s slumbering hold. He didn’t wake, and for a moment, Morgan looked down on him with a sad smile. Jiro glanced across to the bed where Mab slept—Morgan’s life was making more and more sense. It didn’t make having his fey ex-boyfriend in the bed next to him any less strange; but seeing Morgan with Jace, just how happy they were together, he understood what Morgan meant when he said Mab was no threat to his love. What those two had, the hunter and the human, was stronger than anything Jiro had ever seen.

When Morgan rose and walked a few paces to revive himself, Jiro glanced to Mab’s bed. He really didn’t want to climb under the covers with him, even if he was asleep. But climbing into bed in Morgan’s place beside Jace felt even more awkward. In the end, he gave up and slid his shoes off, pulling the covers back and slipping in the opposite side from Mab. His last thought before he fell into sleep was that if Mab tried to snuggle him, he’d end up with a black eye, assassin or not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but felt like the perfect place to break it. :) More coming soon.


	5. Chapter 5

_Silence. A stable yard falling to the black shadows of evening. He willed stillness to his limbs, his breath to slow, his heart to quiet. The cool press of stone at his back soothed his raw nerves. Three days he had not slept, hard on the heels of prey. Now, here, he would end it._

“It is a risk worth taking.”

_Footsteps on cobblestone. The stench of horse and fear. His prey frightened them by presence alone; beatings did that to animals. He knew, recognized the pattern. He inhaled, holding his breath. Creak of a door. This was the moment._

“We can’t trust him. You know that.”

_Blood. Screaming. Struggle._

“We can trust his treachery—that is what we rely on.”

_Silence. Death._

“Only until we find Hector. After that…”

Mab allowed the awareness to come, let the final tendrils of sleep slough from his mind. Rough sheets cocooned him in warmth, but the lowered temperature in the room told him others had opened the door already this morning. The pungent smell of cooked food betrayed the purpose—breakfast. Slowly, as though waking from a deep sleep, Mab’s eyes fluttered open.

The dimly lit motel room met him. The hulk of Morgan’s figure sat on bed opposite, side by side with his mortal lover. Both had already dressed, and the stack of wrapped breakfast food before them confirmed his assumption. Taking in the sight of the pair brought an ill taste to Mab’s mouth; he uncurled from the sheets, stretching like a cat.

“Good morning,” Morgan’s deep voice rose to invade his thought.

Mab blinked away the final vestiges of sleep. “Good morrow,” he sighed. He rolled to sit; glancing beside him, he found the other side of his own bed empty, but slept in.

It brought a small smile to his face.

“Jiro is in the shower,” Morgan informed lightly. “And Jace brought breakfast.”

Mab turned in time to catch a warm, tinfoil-wrapped sandwich Morgan threw his way. For a moment, Mab thought about refusing it on principle; instead, he set the sandwich on the bed beside him and rose. “I need the washroom first.”

....

The patter of warm water washed over Jiro’s skin; the silence soothed his nerves. Driving through two nights without stop left him feeling grungy and stiff. The hotel soap was crap, as usual, but he didn’t care. The heat of the shower loosened the tension in his muscles, and he let it slip away, savoring the heat. Solitude seeped into him, and he welcomed the loneliness.

Then he heard the clunk of a door.

“…Morgan?”

No answer. A beat as Jiro listened for another sound—it came, the clink of metal. A mix of apprehension and anger flew threw him. He pulled open the shower curtain.

In a split second, Mab was with him. Lips locked with his, hands threw him bodily into the wall of the shower, cold against his back. His feet slipped, but Mab’s hands caught him, pinning him where he stood. He fought back, but the sudden dark intensity gave Mab the advantage. The grind of naked hips was maddening, and Jiro gasped, feeling his body give way to the unwanted heat flushing his skin and pooling in his cock, bringing him hard in a matter of moments. His struggle to free himself became a battle of passion. He knew this was wrong, knew Mab was an enemy and Morgan’s ex-boyfriend and an assassin. He felt Mab’s teeth on his neck, the hard rod of his cock thrust against his own, felt the heat of his skin and the spray of water coating them both. He bit his lip, suppressing a feral moan of deep-seated lust. There were no words, no argument or explanation. Mab’s tongue swirled across his neck, his throat, up the curve of his chin, then mouths joined, a clashing battle of tongues and teeth. Jiro never had this before—the taste of another man, the friction of another cock against his own.

Then, with panting breath, Mab slid to his knees, nipping and licking his way down to kneel before him. For the first time, Jiro saw the look of dark hunger in his eye, and with equal fear and lust, watched as Mab took his cock in hand and swallowed to the hilt.

Jiro stifled a groan of utter pleasure—the heat, the softness and gentle bite of Mab’s teeth took him close to the edge. On instinct he laced his fingers in Mab’s hair, pushing him down again. It was incredible, the most intense thing he’d ever experienced. His eyes rolled closed then open again, not wanting to miss the sight of that mouth taking his shaft over and over. If he wasn’t close enough already, seeing Mab reach down, stroke his own cock in time with the thrust of Jiro’s hips, pushed him to the edge. Like a wicked, insufferable but undeniable force, the pressure mounted until he felt his cock pulse, and he released it all, pouring down Mab’s hungry and willing throat. A breathy moan vibrated through his chest, and Jiro saw Mab shooting, as well. It spattered across the porcelain and down the side of the shower to wash away in the still-pounding water.

Unable to speak, to articulate the relief and rage and confusion in his chest, Jiro just stood, panting and trembling. Mab’s tongue provided a final slip across the still tender skin of his cock. And then he rose, pinning Jiro again, forcing his tongue deep into his mouth. An unfamiliar taste filled Jiro’s senses, a musky thickness. Then, with shock and erotic fulfillment, he realized it was the taste of his own cum still on Mab’s tongue. He kept his hands in Mab’s hair, holding him close, not wanting to believe everything that had just happened, yet not wanting it to end.

But after another moment of entwined lust, Mab pulled away. Without a word he retreated through the shower curtain, wrapping a towel around his waist with easy grace and disappearing back out through the door. Jiro listened for the click, and slid to the floor of the shower in utter confusion, left panting, exhausted and without answer. Something in him said he’d just been used. But the darker side of him—the part he wouldn’t admit, even to himself—said he’d been given a taste of freedom.

Mab was… incredible. Unspeakable. And the most dangerous man he had ever met.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Jiro took time finishing his shower. He scrubbed his skin, trying to drive the scent of Mab away. He knew he was taking too long—when he emerged, Jace and Morgan were sitting on the bed with a spread of breakfast sandwiches, talking easily. Mab reclined on the opposite bed, thumbing through a worn Bible with a carelessly bored expression. It seemed however intense his time in the shower had proved, Morgan and Jace knew nothing of it—there was no reason to suspect, anyway. Jiro made every effort to convince others he was straight, Morgan being no exception. If there had been any concern, Mab seemed to have dispelled it long before Jiro emerged. Jiro bit his tongue, not wanting admit the truth even to himself. He tried to act normally, taking his dirty clothes to one of the packs and stuffing them inside.

“If we take the car in and park aways back from the road,” Jace was saying, “it should be a while before they notice we’re not coming back. And it’ll probably be impounded, eventually.”

“You are willing to lose the car?” Morgan challenged. “Surely there is a place we could leave it until we return.”

“ _If_ you return,” Mab interrupted. “You cannot be sure you will.”

“Renting a spot in the city will take too long," Jace shook his head. "And they’re bound to have questions. Plus it’s the only transportation we’ve got. We can always pull it up into the forest and hope the snow will hide it. There’s supposed to be a fresh storm coming tonight.”

The argument satisfied Morgan. He nodded. “We’ll do our best. Once we get close the park, we can begin searching for a mirror and pull off where we can. With luck one will come near, and it will be a simple task.”

Something had been bothering Jiro. “You guys are talking like this… portal, mirror, is a moving target.”

Morgan nodded. “They are shifting rifts between the two worlds. Like your electricity—perhaps there is something of a similarity. They appear and stand for a time, some for only minutes, others for hours. Then they disappear and shift down the current. Even an experienced hunter can lose a mirror if it jumps too quickly.”

“And they’re, what… doorways?”

Jace took the fore. “They work like doorways, but humans can’t see them. Not like the fey,” he glanced to Morgan and Mab. “It’s like a sixth sense, for them. I’ve only seen it once or twice, and you have to already know it’s there. Even then, it’s just like someone is tugging at the curtain the air is painted on.”

It still didn’t make sense, but Jiro accepted it was something he’d have to see for himself. “How do we get through?”

“I’ll take care of that,” Mab said. “I do not know if Morgan still has his traveling stone, but I have several.”

Morgan frowned. “It is foolish to carry more than pair… If you were to drop one here—”

“Remember I’m new to this, guys,” Jiro cut in. “So there’s some kind of magic stone that takes us through?”

“They aren’t magic,” Jace answered. “They’re just regular stones. You need a piece of earth, of stone, from the world on the opposite side. Going into Amaranth, you use a stone from Amaranth. Coming back, you use a stone from our world.”

“Journeying knights carry them,” Morgan added, “in case their prey manages to flee to this world. Such stones are rarely used, in Amaranth. As you can imagine, the mortal world is treated with fear and distrust.”

Mab shut the Bible and tossed it to the end of the bed. “Even moreso after your escapade, Morgan. The Queen has yet to replace you. I think she fears the mortal world is too dangerous to be trusted. Luckily, I do not share the same reticence.”

“Luckily,” Jiro cursed under his breath.

Morgan glanced to the window, and the sunlight now tumbling beneath the curtains and down the wall. “It is getting late—we should be leaving.”

Jace crumpled up his trash from breakfast and tossed it in the waste bin. “I’ll check out and meet you at the car,” he offered. “Make sure you don’t forget anything. They’re not happy about letting people back in.”

Jiro helped Morgan gather their things, though little had been taken from their bags. Mab gathered the remnants of breakfast and followed Jace’s lead, dumping it in the trash. When Morgan opened the bag with the weapons, Jiro caught a glint in his eye; Morgan retrieved a dagger and tossed one to Jiro. Mab stood waiting, but Morgan rezipped the bag without a sideways glance.

“You will have to return my weapons eventually,” he taunted in amusement.

Morgan frowned. “Not until we are through to Amaranth.”

With a biting cynicism, Jiro added, “I wouldn’t let him near them, even then.”

Morgan’s voice grew solemn. “I would not send a man unarmed into the wilderness of Amaranth, not even my greatest enemy.”

The words struck Jiro as he gained a new appreciation for what they were walking into.

Catching his silence, Mab taunted, “Do not worry, little wolf. Morgan and I will protect you.”

“I can protect myself.”

A knowing smile quirked Mab’s mouth. “That remains to be seen.”

....

They packed up and headed out to the car Jace already had running. He saw them coming and popped the trunk; Morgan slung the bags in, and Jiro slipped in beside Mab in the back. Morgan rode shotgun. When they had all climbed in and doors were secure, Jace pulled out of the little motel and onto the main road headed east.

The hills rolled by, growing thicker with forest and lingering traces of snow. It was nearing winter, and he knew this would all soon be covered in a stark blanket of white, hiding the deepest greens beneath its frozen shell. He’d never enjoyed snow and cold. Perhaps it was a remnant of growing up in California, or the inactivity that took many people when winter came crawling in with below freezing temperatures and ice sheets across the road. He’d take hundred degree humidity over a snowstorm any day. Winter was a time of dormancy, of rest and reflection. Jiro didn’t often feel the need for either of those. He liked permanence and the warmth of summer sun beating down on him, filling him with energy. He always thought people who lived up north were insane. At least in Colorado, there was an even mix; you had warm days in January, and snowstorms in May. It was better than being snowed in for months in some boondocks Appalachian town.

Signs of civilization soon slipped away, and great green sign announced they were entering the Huron Manistee National Forests.

“Alright, now it’s up to our fey,” Jace said from the front seat. “You guys let me know when there’s a mirror close.”

Silence descended, and Jiro felt the tension—surreal, now that it came to it. Like walking out of real life and into a movie. He saw the concentration on Mab and Morgan’s faces, each looking out the window in search of something Jiro could neither see nor feel. Miles rolled by like that, locked in the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the wheels.

Just as Jiro was about to suggest circling back around, Morgan’s brows raised.

“Here,” he said quickly. “Turn off here!”

Jace obeyed, slowing and rolling onto a dirt shoulder just wide enough to hold them. “Is there one nearby?”

Mab answered eagerly, “On the ridge!”

When Morgan nodded in confirmation, Jace glanced in the rear view mirror and gunned the engine. The car jolted forward, descending down the hill before them and curved into the trees at the bottom. It was a tight fit—Jiro held his breath, praying Jace knew what he was doing. But after a dozen yards, he hooked the wheel left, getting them through to the corner of a little hollow. He jerked the emergency brake, bringing them to a stop with surprising grace. He killed the engine immediately, and popped the trunk.

Unfazed by the unconventional parking job, Morgan leapt out, swinging around to the back of the car to grab the bags. He tossed one to Jiro as he emerged out of the back seat. He caught it with a quiet _umph_.

“We’ll have to run,” Jace said hastily. “There’s no way I’m getting the car back up that hill.”

It added extra haste to Morgan’s unloading. In under a minute, they cleared the car. Jace tossed the keys in the front seat and locked the doors. “Got everything?”

“Got it,” Morgan nodded.

Jace slammed the door and took after his boyfriend, descending deeper into the wood. “Hope this works. We’ll have to break that window to get back in.”

Jiro felt the adrenaline spike his blood—this was it, all in. He trailed behind Mab, following in the footsteps of the others in a mad dash toward a rise in the landscape almost a quarter mile away. He was grateful he’d put effort into running, and Jace seemed to be in good shape, too. They covered ground quickly, mounting over fallen logs and scrambling through the heather. When the ground began rising, Jiro pumped his legs faster, mounting the rocky terrain, picking the best path up by second nature.

“It is fading! Don’t stop!” Morgan called back over his shoulder. “Everyone grab hold of the person ahead of you!”

A split second hesitation, and Jiro reached out, seizing Mab’s shoulder as Mab grabbed Jace’s wrist, and Jace found Morgan’s hand. In a tandem line, they ran headfirst over the ridge.

For a moment, Jiro felt weightless. Then he was falling, tumbling into the void in front of him. He felt the full weight of his body smash into Mab’s, and keep falling.


	7. Chapter 7

Jiro’s legs rocked unsteadily as the ground beneath him slid and gave way. He backpedaled, trying to stay upright as he saw only open air before him. A hand hooked his collar, and with impossible strength he was thrown backwards from the cliff face, landing with a painful jolt on the flat of his ass. He looked up to find the triumphant face of Mab smiling down at him.

“Careful,” the fey man admonished.

Jiro’s head wheeled. His eyes darted around, taking in the change in scenery. Brown and grey—different from the dark green they had run through just moments before. There were no trees here, just grass. The air warmed his skin, like stepping inside after a long run in the cold. His skin tingled with the sensation; he shook his hands out, trying to warm them.

“Did everyone make it through?” Morgan’s voice rent the air from above. “Mab? Jiro? Are you harmed?”

Jiro glanced back and up—a great wall of dirt met him, and at the top of another knobby outcropping, Morgan had his arm around Jace’s waist.

“Here!” Jiro waved. “We’re down here!”

Morgan spotted them. Taking care, he slung his bag back over his shoulder and began sliding down the rocky slope. It was incredible, really, that they hadn’t all been sent tumbling down the cliff face. Seeing it now, Jiro realized that if Mab hadn’t grabbed him, it would have been a fifteen foot drop down onto a pile of large, painful looking rubble below. After that, the hill evened out to some semblance of the terrain they had just crossed, but with only a sparse tree here and there, still clinging to the browning leaves. It was eerie—seeing it all, the landscape they had just run through, but with entirely different scenery. Like the world had been given a fresh coat of paint. He did not miss it; the new warm air was quickly returning life to his wind-chilled fingers and cheeks. A spray of dust rose into the air as Morgan slid the last yard, followed closely by Jace. Jiro had to give it to him—for a boho artist, Jace was proving to be better adjusted to all of this than Jiro was. Of course, he had nearly two years and a previous trip to become so, and Jiro had jumped in with both feet just days ago.

Mab assisted Morgan in joining them on the outcropping of rock, and Morgan threw his duffel bag down on the dirt. “Right… Everyone in one piece?” he asked cheerfully.

Jiro nodded. “Thanks to Mab.”

Mab didn’t appreciate the acknowledgment. “You promised me my weapons, Morgan. I expect you to honor it.”

It seemed hasty to Jiro—they’d only just arrived. But Morgan bent with equal haste to unzip his bag. Reluctant to dump the entire contents, he began unloading the sheathed blades in quick succession.

With no hesitation, Mab bent down and scooped up his daggers, and bag of throwing stars. “We should get to cover and change garb, as well. Orulian knights patrol this stretch regularly.”

“…Change garb?” Jiro muttered.

Jace grabbed a set of knives from Morgan’s grasp. “Clothes. Change clothes. We’ll masquerade as fey, at least while we can.”

Morgan finished his work. “If we are lucky, no one will realize you are humans and we may escape that confrontation entirely. If anyone asks, Jiro, you are a man of the western coast. No one knows enough about the land beyond the mountains to argue. It will explain your features, as well.”

“My features?” Jiro asked, brows knitting.

Mab grinned. “Did you not know your eyes are shaped oddly?”

Understanding bloomed in his gut, igniting rage in his chest. He didn’t even blink, but threw his fist at Mab’s face.

Much to his surprise, the blow landed square on his jaw. Mab stumbled back, shocked numb at the unexpected attack. And even more surprising, he didn't retaliate.

Morgan seemed to approve. “I did not mean offense, Jiro. The fey of Amaranth are not as widely dispersed as humans, in your world. Fey have come across the sea from Asia to this continent, but they are few and far between. It gives us an advantage, because people will not suspect you are a mortal. But you must be ready to answer such questions. You are a fey from the west, beyond the Great Mountains. And Jace,” he turned to his boyfriend, “you are from the Helraxe, if pressed. With any luck we will not meet someone who truly is.”

Jiro’s mind raced in a whirlwind as they descended the rest of the hill, sliding into the trees at the base. Mab hung back, even as Morgan threw their packs in a pile and began unloading quickly. Leggings, the remaining weaponry, his own fey clothing, and a mix of what Jace had brought. As he finished, Mab came running. “No sight or sound of the King’s Guard yet. Orulia is still far enough out that we may escape their notice for some time.”

“We cannot take that risk,” Morgan said definitively, casting a white tunic and pair of leather leggings at Jiro’s feet. “Everything from the mortal world we still wear needs to be hidden.”

It was not a great sacrifice on Jiro’s part—most of his clothing was still back in Fort Collins, along with his phone and wallet. The only thing he still had of his own were his tennis shoes, and when Morgan plunked down a set of heavy boots before him, he readily relinquished them for the more protective footgear. Their clothing was a mix of what had come from Morgan’s drawer, the costume pieces that Jace had scrounged, and bits of fabric both fey men seemed to carry just in case. It took some time for Jiro, not being accustomed to the hodgepodge assortment of items. Jace finished quickly and stepped into help, tying a red sash around his waist and tucking his billowing tunic up in a fashion to match the others. It was patchy at best, but when finished, Jiro took up the set of knives from the ground and strapped them around his waist—that, at least, he knew. Appraising himself from above, he was impressed. It wasn’t spectacular, but he now at least matched somewhat the full dress Mab and Morgan sported so effortlessly. Jace took a more conservative approach, and kept only a small skean at his waist, and another hidden in his boot.

Mab helped Morgan gather the remnants of their mortal clothing, stuffing it in the bag with the phones and wallets, and Jace’s watch. Morgan glanced around, surveying the spread of trees around them.

“We could burn it,” Mab offered. “No better way to dispose of them.”

“I do not want to call attention to our position,” Morgan negated. “Or start a blaze we cannot control. The electronic devices will likely explode in the heat.”

“We cannot leave it for a fey to discover,” Mab countered. “That will alert them something is amiss, and the sun only knows what they would do with such items.”

“…We could bury it,” Jace offered. “The ground is soft enough here, and if we bury it deep enough, it might be years before it’s discovered, if at all. And we can come back and find it, if we need to.”

Morgan did not seem keen on this plan either, but in the end, there was little else they could do. And Jiro knew it was better than having left them back in the same place as the car, where the human authorities would eventually find them. If they were going for untraceable, it was better to scatter the evidence as widely as possible. Worst case scenario, a fey searching for them might discover it, but by then he hoped they would be long gone.

Jiro and Jace kept watch while Mab and Morgan used rocks to dig a hole in the earth in the middle of the circle of trees. It took long—longer than Morgan felt comfortable. But as the sun rose to its apex in the sky, they finished refilling the hole. It was Jiro’s first experience at Morgan’s forest handiwork; once he had covered the hole and scattered loam and leaves across it, even Jiro could not discern it had been disturbed.

Morgan was not so optimistic. “It is a rough job, but it will have to do. We have lingered too long already, and we should attempt to be inside the city walls before nightfall.”

The words carried weight that everyone seemed to understand but Jiro. “What happens at nightfall?”

Mab finished cleaning his knife and sheathed it in his boot. “The beasts come out to play.”

....

The land that spread before them rolled in gentle hills, spotted with trees. It was incredible, seeing that much open space unbroken by civilization. They’d seen plenty of open land in Nebraska and Iowa, but not like this—completely untouched, no road or weather vane or aircraft in sight. Clouds were rolling in over the northern horizon, but to the south, blue sky stretched without end. A vast spread of wild, untamed grasslands, still warmed by the sun, woke his mind and called to his heart. What would it be like to live in a place like this, where there were still unknown forests, strange creatures to be discovered and completely new civilizations to be explored? He looked on Mab and Morgan differently in that moment, seeing the fey men walk with a new gait, as warriors assessing hostile terrain, wild and feral in their hearts. For all Jace’s confidence, he stuck out like a sore thumb with his easy step and gentle self-assuredness. In that moment, Jiro began to understand what it meant to be fey.

It was a quiet journey through the hills, marked only by Mab and Morgan discussing the best course through the sometimes brambled landscape. Jiro knew nothing of the distances here, or how long it would take to reach the city, but he gathered progress was not as swift as they hoped. Mab grew restless, circling wider and wider in his roaming scouts. Morgan stayed resolutely at Jace’s side, like a guardian angel. Jiro brought up the rear, staring with unmasked wonder at the alien flora, the speckled brown grass and berry bushes they occasionally passed. They were like blueberries, but darker, a rich purple blue that ripened in clumps. He was tempted to taste them, but when Morgan and Jace walked by without stopping, he stayed his curiosity and followed after, knowing he would see more wondrous things than berries by the time this trip was out.

He was not disappointed when, just as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, Mab called out from the top of the next hill. “Morgan!”

The fey hunter frowned and jogged to catch up; Jiro joined him, letting Jace bring up the rear. When they reached the ridge, the reason for Mab’s concern became clear.

Ten yards out, at a dip in the hill, a hulking carcass of fur and bone lay on blood-soaked earth. Larger than any grizzly bear Jiro had ever heard of, its massive, wolf-like head and jowls gaped, its throat split open, and the full seven feet of its torso had been torn to shreds. It was a grisly scene, and Jiro held his elbow over his nose to mask the stench. “Jesus Christ…”

Morgan’s brows furrowed at the sight, as well. “By the sun…” he muttered, descending further. Mab joined his side, but remained silent as Morgan’s keen eyes surveyed the surroundings, then turned back to the slain creature. Not a breath of wind disturbed the scene, hidden like an oasis of slaughter in the tumble of the verdant landscape.

“What is that thing?” Jiro asked, struck with awe.

Morgan knelt, scanning the ground stained by the creature’s blood. “A wierwolf—an ancient one, by its size.” He reached out to dip his fingers in the dirt. “And not long dead… Twelve hours, perhaps.”

Mab joined his side, shifting uneasily as he beheld the carnage. “We should not linger. This carcass will be a beacon for other Unseelie.”

A frown darkened Morgan’s features. Almost absently he rubbed the crimson stain on his fingertips, glancing up to the tangled mess of carnage. “No… This creature has lain dead since dawn….” A tone of worry pervaded his voice, and Jiro shifted uneasily. Morgan rose, more certain in his concern. “Look at the body,” he demanded. “The blood, the bones, the entrails… All are here. Scattered, but here.”

A fresh wave of darkness crossed Mab’s visage, and Jiro glanced from one man to the other in search of an answer. “What does that mean?”

“Unseelie are vicious, but they do not kill for sport,” Morgan explained. “Whatever being attacked this wierwolf slaughtered, then left the meat to rot.”

“But it _was_ a beast,” Mab countered with a gesture to the maimed carcass. “That is the work of claws and teeth.”

Morgan let his gaze wander the perimeter of grass, the individual blades ruffled in a breeze, the open sky of blue above. He turned, taking in the curve of the upper hill, the winding trail of rocks that tumbled down the landscape to sprawl at their feet. There it halted; his eyes narrowed.

“It cannot be…” The word came as a murmur from Morgan’s lips, barely audible. A ghost of a frown crossed Mab’s features, and Jiro glanced around, equally confused.

Then the earth began to tremble beneath his feet.

“Go!”

Morgan’s shout cut the air, and he lurched forward, grabbing Jace by the arm as the rumble of an earthquake cast the ground into chaos. Behind them, an ear-splitting roar shook the air. Panic overrode confusion—Jiro whirled.

The hill rise at their backs had come alive. A great mass of moving rock and grass tore free from the earth; dirt and stone erupted in all directions. Jiro threw his arms over his face instinctively, reducing the worst of the blast. A second roar shattered his eardrums, and he cried out. The earth jolted and shook. He stumbled back toward the bloody carcass, away from the blast. Through the din, Morgan cried out once more, farther than he had been moments ago. A hail of dirt pelted Jiro’s outer arms, pushing him back. Daring to lower them for a moment, he fought to see through the rain of debris. What he saw left him pale.

A form rose from the hillside—serpentine, nearly thirty feet long and thicker around than Jiro’s waist. The top side of the creature blended with the earth itself, covered in rocky lumps the same as the hillside; the underside of the belly was smooth with slate-gray scales. Its head rose in a mass of ill-shaped rocks, opening in a mouth of deadly fangs like a giant worm of nightmares. Yet it moved with the grace of a snake, rearing its ugly head to strike.

The surge of battle spiked in Jiro’s veins, and he drew his knife on instinct. He didn’t know what it could do against a beast so horrible, so alien, but the rage of survival spurred him on. The creature had him cornered with his back against the wierwolf carcass—Morgan had cleared the others, and from the corner of his eye, Jiro saw him turn back in the moment before the monster struck.

Time slowed, or stopped. Jiro saw the mouth of fangs descend on him with heart-stopping clarity. Instinct pushed back, and he leapt sideways. The beast’s jaw hit raw earth a foot from where Jiro stood. It recoiled in fury.

Fighting disbelief, he scrambled back over the wierwolf’s bloody haunches in time to see Morgan and Mab running at the beast full-tilt. Daggers flashed in the sun, and the snake was suddenly fending off attack itself. It slithered back, head raised in warning. Fans of gray slate protruded from its cheeks; a cobra’s hiss escaped its throat.

Morgan did not give the creature time to rally. He came at it head on, daggers slashing the air in what seemed a feigned attack—Jiro watched in sick fascination as the tangled mass of stone and earth coiled back in defense. Morgan shouted, and the snake struck again. He dodged with grace, bringing a dagger down to slice the creature’s head. The metal ricocheted, as if off stone, and Morgan moved with the momentum, using it to spin back into another attack. The snake countered in anger, snapping at Morgan’s open back. Only reflex saved the man from being torn in two. It became of a battle of speed as Morgan provoked the monster’s full attention in a whirlwind of inhuman slash and dodge.

A cold knot of fear settled in Jiro’s stomach—then he saw the dark figure moving through the grass at the snake’s flank. While Morgan faced the beast head-on, Mab approached from the side unseen. It was a dangerous move: the beast’s thrashing body swung in time with the strikes, threatening to crush anything in its path. Mab ducked and rolled, then, in a split-second between the snake’s strikes, hooked a crag in the stony skin and pulled himself atop the slithering mass. Swaying with the creature’s movement, Mab leapt along the bulbous length until he came to the slithering head, and drew his knife.

It was insane. Impossible. And Jiro understood.

Mab meant to kill it.

He didn’t know how, or why, but the shine of Mab’s steel evoked the fight in his own chest. This creature could die: it wasn’t invincible. His feet spurred to motion, thudding across the grass in a mad dash to aid Morgan in his fight. He came from the side, dodging another spray of stone as the beast’s tail tore at the earth in fury. Through the spatter of debris, he saw Morgan locked in combat with deadly rows of teeth, losing speed.

Whatever Mab intended it do, it needed to happen fast. Jiro ran for the head and crashed into its cheek with the full force of momentum behind him. The flesh gave, and both snake and man flew forward. Jiro tucked then rolled through to stand, just in time to see the snake’s head swivel, fixing its small, beady eyes on the newfound target.

“Jiro!” Morgan’s voice reverberated through the din. Jiro leapt backward, barely missing the rows of gnashing fangs that snapped his direction. He backed up, certain he had its attention. “Jiro, get out of here!”

He shook his head, seeing the creature recoil, reassessing its situation. “Come on, ugly!” he yelled. “Come and get me!” From his right, he heard Morgan curse, but the taunt seemed to work. And beyond the massive roll of its stony neck, Jiro saw the dark figure ascending toward the vulnerable skull. “Come and get it!” he shouted again, knife raised high. Adrenaline seared his veins, and Jiro’s mind came to clarity. He saw the hiss of breath as the snake wound for attack. He felt Morgan’s panting breath at his side, winded by his battle. He smelt the stench of death and sweat and blood.

The snake lunged. Mab’s black form used the movement, swinging down its cheek while bringing his blade up. As the snake’s head jutted forward to bite, Mab’s feet touched the ground, and he buried his blade in its throat with full force of physics and luck behind him.

Blood spurted from the wound, and as the snake recoiled once more, Mab kept his feet on the earth, letting the beast’s own movement rend its flesh a full two yards down the scale-covered throat. An inhuman shriek howled through the air, then cut short as blood filled the snake’s throat and mouth. It gagged, convulsed and slammed back to the earth, trying to kill whatever wasp had landed its sting.

But the damage was done. The great beast fell still, and all three men stood panting in surreal victory.

Jiro’s heartbeat thudded in his chest. It had been the wildest, craziest fight of his life. And he had won. He bent over, letting the reality of everything he had just seen permeate his rational mind.

“That…” he gasped, “was… insane.”

A laugh rumbled through the air—Mab stood, soaked in the blood of his kill. A grin cracked his features, hearty and genuine, and his laugh was more commendation than a thousand words. Morgan joined in, shaking his head with unabashed relief. The height of battle was still in them, and the rush of shock. The fear and fight rolled from their bodies with each note of laughter and warmed the dust-hazed air.

Footfalls came from behind, and Jace approached, his own look of relief a good deal less complete. “Morgan! Are you alright?”

Morgan’s smile filled them all with another round of laughter. “Yes…” he managed, scooping Jace to him with a hug. “Yes, I am well.” He cast his gaze to where Jiro stood, trying to control his own giddy grin. “Jiro proved to be a bold fighter. We are lucky to have him along.”

Jiro shook his head—Amaranth was shaping up to be a wild ride. And he liked it.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“That rocdrake must have lain in wait for hours, hoping some other beast would attempt the carcass,” Morgan surmised easily. They had gathered themselves quickly and were back on their way in minutes; the sun had sunk even lower during their battle with the snake—a rocdrake, Morgan called it, a creature who hunted by ambush, blending with its surroundings to take its prey unaware. When the adrenaline wore off, their task of reaching Orulia by nightfall came into sharp focus. The battle with the beast seemed to loosen something in Morgan, and he spoke with candid clarity to his companions as they journeyed across the rolling hills. “I did not believe at first… Rocdrake inhabit mountainous terrain, where their stone backs will be best hidden among the crags. It is strange to see one here in the grasslands.”

“Obviously,” Mab answered with edge; he’d cleaned the blood as best he could from his skin, but his tunic still betrayed the carnage he had faced. “But why attack us, when that wierwolf was a grander meal than the four of us put together? Why not just eat its first kill?”

“Two creatures of that size could not battle without leaving evidence, and I saw none. It was scavenging, not baiting…”

Jiro listened to their conversation with divided interest. The world around him had suddenly come alive with possibilities—if a being as deadly as the rocdrake roamed these hills, what else lay in hiding? He knew the correct response would be terror; Jace, even with his knowledge of Amaranth, had been visibly unsettled by the encounter. Butonly eagerness met Jiro when he cast his gaze inward, a fascination with this fey world. And with the dark assassin that walked beside him, bold enough to mount a thirty foot snake and use physics to do what even Morgan himself had not, after minutes of close combat. Mab had moved up in Jiro’s estimation, after witnessing that. And, he noticed, Mab seemed to have taken a greater appraisal of Jiro himself. More than once on their walk he’d caught Mab’s piercing gaze on him, only to glance away in disinterest when Jiro noticed. Whatever his thoughts, Mab didn't seem keen to speak them.

Jiro was glad. With the adventure before them getting more intricate by the hour, Jiro needed his focus. Losing sight of their goal—finding Hector and surviving the outcome—would only lead to disaster.

Just as dusk began descending around them, Mab came bounding back down from his scouting position atop the next hill. “Thanes!” he stated darkly. “Four on horse, dew north.”

Morgan tensed and motioned for the others to follow as he bounded up the slope at Mab’s side, crouched low. Jiro crested the hill in suit, and saw what Mab had spotted—rounding the bend of a hill nearly a half mile out, four figures rode at a casual trot, two by two. Something struck Jiro, something out of place. Then he realized the horses were grossly disproportionate to the riders; from this distance, he guessed them to be nearly a full head high at the shoulder.

“Jesus Christ…” he cursed. “ _Those_ are your horses?”

Jace answered for the two fey men who had fallen silent in appraisal. “Things grow bigger here in Amaranth… You should see their dogs.”

Impressed, Jiro exhaled another curse. They’d been spotted—the formation of riders turned their direction. No fanfare, no hue and cry. They moved as a unit with the smallest gesture. “What are we going to do?” he asked, wanting to make sure he understood the plan before the riders were on them.

Morgan’s voice rumbled lowly, “We do nothing. We are strangers in their land. They have a right to question us.”

A snort from Mab said he found such reasoning amusing at best, but he did not argue. “If we are lucky, they will escort us to Orulia, which is precisely where we want to be.”

“…And if we’re unlucky?” Jiro wondered.

“They do not believe our story, and we are killed,” Morgan concluded. “So it is best if you and Jace say nothing until it is sorted.”

Unable to argue, Jiro stepped back, taking position behind Mab. He felt his blood begin to rise, seeing the horses draw nearer. They showed no sign of slowing, only rushing at an unbroken pace as if to trample them. But as they hit the upslope of the hill, they fanned out with surprising speed. Up close, the horses were even more intimidating, and the thunder of hooves shook the ground. Jiro did not flinch, but stepped closer to the others, feeling the rush of wind as riders encircled them. Mab drew his weapon, but Morgan remained stolid, like a stone warrior unaffected by the roiling chaos around him.

The tromp of hooves slowed. When the horses came to rest, one stood before each of them, ready to attack at the slightest prompting from its rider.

The thanes themselves were more than impressive on their own. A mix of chain mail and plate armor covered their bodies, engraved with strange runes and gargoyle designs, and each kept an assortment of weapons. Two had drawn and nocked bows, ready to fire should their quarry prove hostile. Two others held javelin spears in readiness. It took a moment, staring at the rider before him, but in the subtle curve of armor and golden blond hair flowing from beneath the helm, Jiro guessed it to be a woman. He did not have time to take in the others, because with little pretense, the rider before Mab drove his horse forward a pace.

“ _Quis es tu, quae tua Quintos mentem_?” The rider’s voice boomed through them with stolid authority. Jiro did not understand the words, though the cadence sounded something like Italian, quick and melodic.

Mab stepped forward in answering challenge. “I am the ambassador of the Queen of Elram. I hunt a traitor who has fled to your lands. You must let me pass.”

It was bold—bolder than even Jiro could understand. If Mab thought he could bully his way through, he was crazier than Jiro thought.

But the words had an effect on the troupe of riders. They grew restless, and one of the horses took cue from its rider to stomp and snort, attempting to shy away from the man who had spoken so boldly. The first rider, the one who had spoken, called out for peace. Sizing up Mab with a frown, he stated in accented English, “…I am obligated only to deliver you to King Amatus. It is his permission you must seek, ere you continue.”

This incensed Mab. “By the treaty of our lands you may not hinder me!” he barked with authority. “I hunt a traitor to Elram, and it will be brought down on your heads if I am stayed!”

“You are far afield,” the man said gravely in return. “And what becomes of my head is not yours to decide. You will be brought before the king. We hold the right of hospitality in this land, but if you resist us, you will be slain.”

It was harsh, and Jiro took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.

Mab was not so reserved. He unsheathed his second knife with venom. “I would be pleased to see you try.”

At last Morgan stepped forward, holding his hand out to bar the path between Mab and the rider. “We give you no resistance. We already travel to the royal city, and would be welcome for company on the road.” Over his shoulder to Mab, he added, “It is wiser to travel in peace than spill blood that will attract Unseelie.”

It was a cold assessment, but it struck the correct chord with Mab, who slowly lowered his weapons. Looking to Morgan with annoyed concession, he spat, “Then let us be done with questions. The sun is fading fast.”

The lead rider lowered his spear in return. “The horses are still fresh and will bear two. You will ride before us. Should you change your thought, we will not hesitate to throw you beneath them.”

 _Shit_ … Jiro thought. If he had thought Morgan and Mab were harsh, the reason behind it was quickly becoming apparent. It was like a cock measuring contest with knives instead of drunken slurs. He turned to Jace, who seemed to be unfazed by the confrontation, though he had moved closer to Morgan, into the security of his protector.

The rider before him, the woman, pressed her horse forward. She held out a hand—not inviting, but insisting.

Uncertain, Jiro glanced to the others. A pause of hesitation, then Morgan moved. Ignoring the hand held out to help, he sprang like a cat, hooking his grip in a low-hung loop and swinging up to mount the saddle before the rider.

It was a small act of defiance, but it brought a smile to Mab’s face. He did the same, and Jiro had to blink again in disbelief—the horses were nearly half again as tall as a man, and they had just mounted them with incomprehensible grace.

Knowing he would never be able to pull off such a maneuver, he turned back to the open hand of the rider before him. With disconcerting strength, she hoisted him up, and on instinct he managed to get his feet in the proper spot. Glancing over, he saw Jace had done something similar, and rested easily atop his steed.

“Jesus…” Jiro breathed—like riding a high-rise truck, but with the breathing, pulsing life of a creature beneath him. He had to take a moment to gain his bearings. The woman’s arms tied a knot of rope around his waist and secured it to the pommel before him. The indignity of it was lost as the head rider spurred his beast forward, and the others followed suit, jolting to a start like a runaway roller coaster. Jiro clung to the pommel as they gained speed, racing so fast it felt like flying, except with the cadence of hoof beats beneath them and the roll of the horse’s shoulders jostling him. A moment of fear seized his chest, but he willed it to calm, closing his eyes and measuring the roll of the rhythm.

When he opened his eyes again, he could have laughed in pure astonishment. As if on invisible wings, they soared over the landscape. Had been among friends, Jiro would have held out his hands to feel the air rush past them; the wind in his face stole his worries, and the power he now felt in the muscled creature beneath him seeped into his being. It was incredible, exhilarating, liberating. With a ridiculous grin spread across his face, Jiro decided he could like it here.

....

They rode at breakneck speed, pausing only once to allow the horses to trot and cool down. The sun disappeared behind the spread of the horizon, and the stars began to light. As if sensing danger brought with the darkness, the horses spurred on faster. They headed roughly north east, away from the highest rise of hills. Perhaps it was the growing darkness, but Jiro saw no sign of another living being besides themselves; on their right the gentle gleam of water came into view, then the large expanse of what he knew to be Lake Huron in the human world. And then, just as the darkness deepened and the moon rose above the black horizon, they broke the last hill, and the city’s lights spread before them.

A sea of orange and yellow stars, it spread in decadent luxury across the banks of the lake then branching with solid arms into the heather. Low-lying buildings were illuminated in the torch lights, and on the rise of a ridge in the center, a great palace rose with pantheon columns thrown into eerie relief against the blackness beyond. A torch blazed at its height, a beacon of civilization against the star-strewn sky. Circling the entire city, a wall that looked to be over forty feet high guarded against the deepening shadows of night. It hid the buildings nearest them from view, though from their position at the top of the final hill, the great expanse of the city could still be seen, a giant spidering maze that left Jiro dizzy.

Behind him, the woman sensed his intake of breath.

“King city,” she said in broken English. “Orulia.”

They rode hard the final half-mile. As they neared the wall, the dirt path they trailed melded into cobblestone, and the clack of the horses’ hooves said they were on a structured road; a causeway rose beneath them, and as they drew closer, massive doors of burnished bronze, cast in the likeness of great gargoyle beasts, and across the bottom center, an eight-legged horse was shown mid-gallop, profile contorted in a snarl. The entire scene reminded him of some sort of Nordic culture infusion. It was different than the designs on Morgan and Mab’s clothing; simpler, but the beasts were more grotesque in appearance, blocky, but depicted in grisly detail.

The horse beneath him slowed to a trot, and their lead rider pulled to the head of the column, bringing them to a halt before the twenty-foot gate. A voice echoed down from the top of the wall, a booming demand in the same language the riders had first used with them in the hills.

The lead rider answered back, and Jiro caught the word, _Elram_.

A pause, and then a resounding boom echoed through the night. The gates creaked and parted. The horses whinnied and stomped in impatience. He felt the roll of the beast’s muscles beneath him and tightened his grip on the pommel. When the doors had opened wide enough to let them pass single file through, the leader spurred his horse onward. One by one, they entered the royal city of Orulia.

Once inside, the glow of torches warmed their path; the cobblestone street of the city spread open before them. To the left and right, what looked to be guardhouses stood, and a great cog and crank that worked on a spring, releasing the gates to slam shut behind them. As the bolt slid into place, barring it once more, a guard in black and gold livery stepped forward.

“ _Qui sunt isti?”_ he asked with stern demand.

“ _Sociis ac Elram sicarius est._ ” The lead rider reined his horse in, letting it dance and cool down while still bursting with energy for running. “ _Quia oporteret eum ire Amatus Rex extemplo_.”

The man looked them all up and down, then nodded. In English he declared, “You will be taken to the King. He yet holds audience, if you can make haste.”

The leader nodded and said something slurred in their language before calling out to the other riders.

Without warning, the party departed in a gallop, racing through the city streets. People scattered before them, but without fear, as though mammoth horses plowing through the streets was a regular occurrence. Great, sprawling structures lined with columns and lit from below with torches. In the flickering lumination, Jiro caught glimpses of intricate knotwork across door frames, carved runes and eerily detailed reliefs of beast and bird. Like an ancient Roman city with an overlay of Viking aesthetic, the city was an odd mix of practicality, art and fortification.

He held on tightly, filing away everything he saw for later.

They ascended with speed, taking the main road in a winding spiral up the great hill at the center, passing more people than Jiro could easily wrap his head around. But at last they reached the upper gate leading to the palace. It was small, compared to the others—only a handful of guards stood watch, and as they approached, the lead rider called out ahead of them: “ _Laurea_!”

As if fixed on springs, the doors burst open before them, and the riders spurred the horses through.

A vast expanse of lawn met them, lit by an outer ring of torches standing as sentinels. At the far end, an impressive row of columns stretched like wings flanking a rise of stairs carved of white marble. The riders spurred the horses on to the very base then pulled them to halt. The beasts were panting now, pushed to exhaustion. Speed had benefited them, though—they had crossed a stretch of country Jiro knew would have taken them an entire day on foot in a matter of hours. It added to his respect of these people, their fearlessness in riding such massive mounts and controlling them with ease.

The woman behind him swung down, landing lightly on her feet. Jiro worked the knot at his waist, letting it loosen and fall unbound around him. When he was certain he was free, he followed her movements, landing with less grace, but still managing to stay on his feet. Turning, he found Mab and Morgan already on the ground; the latter had taken a place at the hock of Jace’s beast, helping him down.

The leader approached them. “You will follow me to the His Majesty’s hall.”

Not in any position to argue, they joined one another in a small group, flanked on all sides by the horsemen who had been their escorts. Jiro ascended the stairs with growing anticipation, feeling the blood flow back into his legs; it took him a minute to get used to solid ground beneath his feet. He took lead from the others and walked with casual confidence, repeating what Morgan had said in his mind—he was a fey of the west, beyond the Great Mountains. He had no idea what a fey like that would act like, but he from the sound of it, neither did any of their captors. It was a clever advantage, really. As long as he didn’t meet someone who knew what they were talking about.

They mounted the steps and entered the atrium, a large open-spaced room with intricate carpet spread at the center and statues lining the inner wall. They were all of great warriors clad in armor, some with beasts at their side. Thanes stood stationed on either side of a great open gateway, but did not halt them, and when they passed through the final doorway, Jiro’s eyes widened.

A cathedral-like chamber spread out before them, a mix of marble and mosaic tile, creating a pattern of twining dragons spread on the floor, gleaming in the torchlight. He followed the pattern up to a great dais, and the throne at the far end of the hall.

A man sat with easy grace on the high seat, dressed in an odd mix of hunting gear and sashes, large tromping boots and wild fur lining a toga-like wrap around his chest. Golden hair hung like a lion’s mane across his shoulders, and his firm jaw was clean-shaven. His throne was carved of the same marble as the columns, rich and warm. A golden circlet rested on his brow, simple, like the trappings were a formality, and the true power laid in the man himself. Yet as they crossed the final dozen yards to stand before him, Jiro noted with surprise the king was no older than Morgan, late twenties at best. It set eerie unease in Jiro’s stomach, and intimidated him more than any monster ever could.

The thanes brought them to a halt at the foot of the dais; the two in front knelt before the throne.

“ _Domine mi rex, invenit in via, deprecamur, ut peregrini Orulia.  Tenebris est de se dicit, quod sicarium Elram._ ”

The king’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. He nodded to the thane who had spoken, and the others rose. With unhurried scrutiny, the king appraised Mab’s dusty leggings, blood-stained tunic and stern features. At last, when he spoke, the words boomed through the hall with confident reserve.

“Welcome to my realm, Master Anatolus. It is a fortune to see you again.”

The gentility of the king surprised Jiro—if ambassador really was synonymous with assassin, they were all being very calm about it.

Unimpressed, Mab responded unmitigated demand. “I hunt a man known as Hector Raethgard, a traitor who has fled our land. I need not advise you of the treaty between our kingdoms. I must be allowed to pass unhindered.”

Amatus reclined and scratched his chin. “I know well the treaty. But I also have duty to my subjects, to ensure their safety.” He glanced to his thanes. “They were wise to bring you before me. And I do not doubt they look forward to the dinners waiting them at home.” He nodded—“You are released.”

The thane at Mab’s side bowed deeply, then followed the others back down the expanse of tiled floor. Jiro watched them go. The doors at their back boomed with finality, sealing the king and their party inside. Jiro turned back to see Mab step forward with a deep frown. “I tracked my target here, and he may yet be within your borders. It is ill advised to detain me and mine before he is found.”

“And who is this Raethgard,” the king wondered evenly, “that you seek him beyond your own borders? A threat to your Queen, no doubt, or she would not have sent you. A rogue knight, perhaps? A guardian fallen from grace?”

Jiro thought it a valid question, but the words incensed Mab. “That is not a matter for your concern!” He strode forward, and for a moment, Jiro tensed—but Mab halted at the step’s edge, daring the king to descend. “Do not trifle with me, Amatus—if you would break our treaty, then do so!”

The king weighed the challenge; quiet descended, hinging on the man’s decision. When the answer came, it was with direct, authoritative calm. “I do not break the treaty, or any oath I have sworn, for such a trivial matter. However…” He weighed his words, then made his mind. “In order to proceed in my land, I ask a boon from you. In exchange for my hospitality.”

Mab’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “This has not been the custom between us.”

It did not dissuade him. “Nevertheless, I have need of a man with your particular talents. You may agree to my terms, or my thanes shall escort you back to the borders of my realm, and you will be an enemy henceforth.”

Mab made to speak, but Morgan stepped forward with a gesture of peace. “What favor would you ask, King Amatus?”

The reasonability warmed his mood, and he stood. “I have a situation that vexes me, and I wish you to put an end to it. There is a man who came to our city of late, requesting access to our royal archives—a man of Atena by the name of Edaire. He claims his purpose is to study the history of our realm, but more lies beneath his words. I would ask you to visit this man and gather what you can of his true intent.” His bold smile quirked, as if in amusement. “As an ambassador, I trust you have sufficient skill discerning the truth of a man’s words, though they be veiled.”

The statement struck a chord in Jiro— _discerning the truth_. He had assumed being an assassin meant stealth and lethal force. But at his core, Mab was a hunter. And that meant finding those who didn’t want to be found. He shifted slightly, wondering what truth Mab had discerned beneath his own words, in the short time they had known one another.

“Indeed, even in your words, Amatus,” Mab answered with cool venom. “You wish me to attempt what your own thanes failed to do, and detect whether this man is a threat to you.”

Amatus did not deny it. “Edaire will not trust any thane I might send. As a man of Elram, an ambassador, I trust you have sufficient skill to prove effective where my own resources have failed.”

A moment, a beat as Mab considered this. He paced to the left, musing over the proposition. “If you distrust this man so, why not order him slain? Your unease bespeaks your own misgivings, yet you still allow him welcome.”

It was the wrong question. Amatus’ eyes fell dark in anger. “I do not kill travelers in my land without reason, Master Anatolus. Unlike your Queen,” he spat. “I do not order death without just cause.”

The sudden flash of emotion startled Jiro from the even-tempered king.

Mab was not so impressed—if the words held bite, he didn’t betray it. “And if I do this thing you ask,” he continued in mellow negotiation, “I may continue my hunt unhindered?”

Amatus nodded once. “Bring me the information I seek, and you will be free to search my lands for the traitor.”

Mab considered this pensively.

“There is one more condition, one final thing I require.”

Mab’s eyes narrowed.

“I will keep one of your companions here, in my palace, until your return.”

“That is cruel hospitality,” Mab snarled. “What makes you think I will agree?”

Amatus’ frown deepened. “They will be well-protected in your absence. It grants me trust that you shall return, instead of fading into the wilds of my land without warrant.” His eyes wandered over each of them, and Jiro met his gaze, though internally he fought not to shy from the curiosity that peaked when the king’s piercing eyes held his. “…You,” he said finally, “What is your name?”

Uncomfortable at being singled out, he clenched his fist and answered, “Jiro. Jiro Han.”

 “And where do you hail from, Jiro Han? You have a strange look.”

Biting back an insult, he repeated: “From west of the Great Mountains.”

Amatus seemed pleased. “I have never met a traveler from so far afield… I should like to speak with you and learn of your country.” Glancing back to Mab, “He will be sufficient. Leave him in my care, and I swear on troth he will come to no harm by my hands or my thanes.”

A flicker of fire dashed through Mab’s eyes, but at that moment Jace stepped forward as if he had been waiting. “If it pleases you, sir, I will stay instead.”

Morgan stood at his side. “If Jace remains, I do as well.”

Mab surveyed the spread of them now standing before him and the king. Jiro felt vaguely like a commodity being bargained over, awaiting his fate with no ability to speak either way. But in moments, Mab nodded, waving to Morgan and Jace with dismissal. “It would be best so, anyway. These two are poor liars, and would only hinder me.”

For a moment, the king looked as if he would argue. Then he decided, “It is well. My thanes will escort them to the guest quarters, where they will remain for the duration of you journey. Edaire himself came by ship to our city two weeks ago and will yet be near, awaiting my decision.”

Mab agreed with a simple nod. “I shall return within a week’s time. I do not do it lightly,” he added in warning. “You have made a bold move, demanding this of me.”

The king did not discount the point. “I would not ask if I believed it was in my power to accomplish this task myself. It is an even exchange—information for free passage.”

Mab did not agree. But without a word he turned and followed the mosaic path of the dragons across the hall. For a moment Jiro stood in confusion; then he realized Mab meant to leave.

He glanced back to Morgan, who stood with a stern-set face at Jace’s side. No answers could be found in his eyes—it seemed all expected Jiro to choose his own path.

“Shit.” Jiro cursed under his breath, and jogged to catch up with Mab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have geeked out a little on the Orulian culture/city in this one. Apologies if the descriptions got too dense. :P It's the first time Jiro's seeing a fey city, so I kind of wanted to give it some depth, but may have gone overboard lol.


	9. Chapter 9

Outside the palace, Jiro raced down the stairs, leaping two at a time to catch up with the determined gait of his companion. “Mab!” he called. “…Mab!”

But Mab didn’t stop—not till he had reached the outermost gate of the palace, and strode into the street with fiery determination. Jiro reached him and grabbed his arm, trying to halt his steps.

It was a mistake. Mab whirled with drawn dagger at Jiro’s throat. Jiro cried out, but Mab silenced him with a growl. “He would make me his errand boy, running here and there for him, bringing him information. He will pay for it!”

Jiro saw the fire in his eyes, the wrath, and for once, knew not to challenge him. “We just have to find this guy and see what he’s up to, then he’ll let Jace and Morgan go.”

Mab answered with a dismal look of appraisal, as if he were seeing Jiro for the first time. He released his throat, and stepped away. “There is no _we_. Go back home, boy. You will only get yourself killed.”

It was a harsh dismissal. But in the flickering torchlight, Jiro refused to give in. “I told Morgan I was here for the long haul, and I meant it. Tell me what we need to do.”

It infuriated Mab. He balled his fist and swore. “I will find Edaire and question him.”

“But…” Jiro couldn’t help but feel he was missing something. “We don’t even know what this guy looks like, where he’s staying. How do we find him?”

With relish, Mab answered, “We ask the harbor master.”

It sounded strange. “The harbor master?”

A small grin spread on Mab’s face. The streets had begun to empty as the night fell more deeply around them, though the orange glow of torches kept the worst of the darkness at bay.  “This city sets on the border of a great network of lakes, and there are towns dotting the shore for many miles. Edaire came to the city by ship—the harbor master will be able to tell us when, on what vessel, and when he departed. That will lead us to the town where he is located. The man made a request of the king and awaits his answer, so he will remain close. He is a scholar able to gain royal audience, and so will demand civilized accommodations. That leaves only four cities with appropriate inns, all of which are within two days journey, at the outmost.”

“How do you know all that?” he wondered in awe.

Mab smiled. “It is my job to know.”

Impressed, Jiro let the answer rest in the air between them as they descended further down the city streets, toward the north. What had been a brief ride on horseback proved to be a fair walk on foot, but it provided Jiro the opportunity to see the city in greater detail. He knew in his heart this should be surreal—walking through an elven city in an alternate world. But all he could feel was wonder; it was the most real sensation he had experienced. Colors were brighter here, and plants grew more wildly. Grass sprouted  in patches throughout the street, and trees rose in tandem with buildings, like sentinels watching as he passed beneath them. The moon rose high in the sky, casting a milk-white glow added to the torches they occasionally passed. It was a strange mix of medieval civilization and premodern utility. He saw no sign of electricity or clockwork, nothing to indicate this world had seen the boom of industrialization that characterized the cities of earth. And yet, it all was laid out with a kind of efficiency. The crowd grew scarcer as they began the final downhill descent toward the shore. He still didn’t understand it—the people here, they were all so young.

“Was there a plague, or something?” he wondered aloud as they rounded another bend.

Mab frowned. “Plague?”

He nodded. “You know, like a disease? Where are the old people?”

A look of confusion came across his face. “I have never heard of this… disease. There are many old fey in this city. It is a safe haven, and so many survive.”

He felt like Mab was speaking a different language, even though the words were English. “Then where are they?”

He shrugged. “They are around us, I imagine…” He pointed to a blacksmith’s shop, closed for the night. “That shop has been open for three centuries, or so. I imagine the owner is at least five hundred. Is that what you mean?”

Jiro’s eyes widened—he couldn’t have heard that right. “Wait… How old are you?”

“Three hundred seventy,” he said plainly.

Jiro grappled with the concept, and found himself completely unable. Mab was nearly four centuries old. “God… I didn’t think you were serious about the elf thing!”

Mab looked at him like he had suddenly contracted rabies. “You are making no sense at all—did you not know the difference between a fey and a mortal?”

 _Mortal_. He’d heard the word used in their conversation before. He just hadn’t registered the entire context, thought it was just a synonym for human. The full weight of the meaning sank into him now. “…You’re immortal?”

Mab shook his head. “Of course we are. What did you think fey meant?”

He tried to articulate. “Do you die? I mean, it’s your job to kill people, so it must be possible. But…”

Mab was reaching his limit with Jiro’s ignorance. He turned and picked up his pace, explaining curtly, “We may be slain, if the wound is grievous enough. But the elements do not kill us.”

“And you just… keep on?” Jiro asked. “If nothing kills you… When do you die?”

“If nothing slays us, we do not.”

“Seriously?” Then a thought occurred to him. “Wait… King Amatus… How old is he?”

“The high side of nine hundred, I believe. He united the factions in this land over six hundred years ago, and is well-loved for it.”

“Factions?”

“The Aesir and the Saturnae…” He huffed in frustration. “I do not have time to provide you a history lesson.” With a critical glare, he said, “Do not speak in the presence of the harbor master. The last thing we need is for the man to discover you are an idiot, let alone a mortal.”

The comment was harsh, but Jiro swallowed his pride—when he realized Mab was nearly four centuries his senior, it shifted his perception. Mab, Morgan, King Amatus… They looked like men in their twenties, his peers. But the truth had been very different. Amatus’ regal confidence, Morgan’s stoicism, Mab’s deadliness… The gravity of their demeanor suddenly made sense. Memory of Mab’s touch came back to him then—the heat of the shower water, the soft moans and how incredible it had felt, with Mab’s mouth and tongue driving him to the edge of sanity. He suddenly felt very insignificant, up against the adventure he had involved himself in.

It set a fire in him, an answering blaze: he wasn’t insignificant, not to himself. And in that moment, he committed to Amaranth completely. Even the mundane of these people’s lives, their political nuances and romance, was the stuff of legends. And he would have a part in it.

....

When the others had disappeared out the atrium and down the steps, Morgan turned back to the bear of a man before them. His smile was warm, encouraging. Morgan distrusted it. On instinct, he reached out for Jace’s hand, holding it in firm warning to the king before them.

Amatus caught the gesture, as well as the ferocity in Morgan’s eye. He said nothing to question, merely smiled in answer. “My thanes will escort you to your quarters. Should you require anything during your stay, do not hesitate to speak it. You will be given every accommodation, save leave, until your friend returns.”

Morgan nodded in a short bow. “I thank you, King Amatus. Your generosity is appreciated.”

Amatus nodded in acceptance, then turned as two guards of equally great stature stepped past him to escort their guests away. Never releasing Jace’s hand, Morgan fell in step behind them.

They were led through a great arch to the left of the throne and down a long hallway flanked with tapestries depicting great battles, a black forest and a full moon shining down on villas and city streets. It was fascinating, and as an artist, Jace lingered, attempting to take them all in while keeping pace with the others. Morgan squeezed his hand, and he turned back with reluctance to the path before them. It led further back into the palace, past doorways cast in bronze and carved of a chestnut dark wood. The hallways within the palace seemed endless, and soon Jace was lost—a glance over his shoulder revealed only more stretches of hallway, branching out into more. He no longer knew the way back to the throne room; with discomfort, he realized that was likely the purpose. For as kind as the king’s words had been, they were still prisoners. Any attempt at escape would likely end with their deaths.

At last the guards halted before a great double-door marked with a set of runes. One of the thanes reached forward, yanking the brass portal outward, and behind it, a moonlit landscape met them—flowers, trees and bushes neatly but wildly grown. For a split second, fear gripped his chest; but as the doors swung fully open, a courtyard of stone was revealed, and the flora was merely a smaller part of a large garden in the center. Pillars lined the outer walls, flanking several open arches leading inward to lamp-lit chambers with couches and empty fireplaces. The stars spread like dusted ice across the black sky above—true stars.

“You will find accommodation inside, and dinner will be delivered by servants in short order. Your chambers are those directly ahead, across the garden,” he nodded toward the far arch. “If you attempt to take step beyond this door before the king has sent release, you will be slain without question.”

Morgan’s hand tightened around Jace’s own. “Thank you,” he said with intentional courtesy. He tread carefully across the threshold, and Jace followed behind. As soon as they were clear the doors swung shut with a final clang.

Morgan did not speak, but gestured across the lawn to their designated quarters. Jace understood, and together they crossed through the lush foliage, down a cobblestone path in the center. Another few yards past the courtyard, they slipped through gargoyle-covered columns and stepped into the warmth on the other side.

It was a large chamber, set with a divan and pillows before a hearth already blazing and popping, radiating heat with quiet efficiency to warm the room around them. Off to the right, Jace caught sight of a doorway leading inward to a covered bed.

Whatever disagreement they had, King Amatus had certainly been true to his word. It was a small apartment, really, tucked away in the protective maze of the palace.

Morgan finished his patrol around the room and into the bedroom. He returned with a stern, but relaxed expression. “It is well enough. That was quick thinking,” he said, pulling Jace to him with a gentle hug.

Jace felt a pang of guilt. “I don’t know what’s worse—Jiro being stuck here trying to answer the king’s questions, or out there alone with Mab. I didn’t mean for you to volunteer to stay here with me.”

Morgan shook his head. “You are mad if you think I would abandon you,” he said with decision. “Where you go, I go. I will not leave you to be a chess piece in another person’s game, not ever again.”

Jace sighed, and let his head rest against Morgan’s shoulder. Their fate now depended on a fey assassin and a mortal fighter, out in the vastness of a foreign land.

....

The great harbor of Orulia was a city of itself, spread like eagle’s wings across the shore of the lake. The cobblestone street led straight to the quays, carved of the same marble that had been so common in the city. Lamps lined the walks here, as well, casting the great masts and painted hulls of over three dozen ships in sharp relief. All were moored for the night and tolling with the incoming waves. Out across the water, blackness spread like ink, creating an eerie silence beyond the reaches of the lamplight. Jiro kept close on Mab’s heels while taking in the new terrain with wonder.

Mab did not allow him time to gawk. He strode with singular purpose towards a large building at the end of the quay whose door was lit with an overhanging lantern. It was a modest composition; creeping vines crawled up the outer wall, which had no windows on the bottom floor. Large, arching windows broke the second story stone, and behind the curtains, a warm orange glow could be seen. Jiro had a fleeting thought that it might be too late to knock on a stranger’s door, but Mab did not share his hesitance. He crossed the final dozen yards without stopping, walked up to the door, and knocked loudly.

For a minute, nothing happened. Then Jiro heard the rattle of a lock, and the door creaked open.

A burly man in blue peered through at them. “ _Salve?_ ”

Mab spoke in melodic fluency: “ _Legatione mihi regem. Habeo quaestionem. Nostis hominem Edaire?_ ”

The harbor master paused, biting his lip. Then, “ _Et egressus est ad quindenam,_ ” he answered curtly. _“Gladium Sidere. Venit ad Portica_.”

Mab nodded. “ _Gratias tibi ago, sos_.” And then he turned, departing without so much as a wave.

Jiro stood on the door step for a moment; when the man behind the door glared at him, he jumped to follow Mab back down the quay. “Wait… Did he know?”

Mab growled lowly, “Your questions are getting tiresome. Edaire was here last fortnight, and left to Portica on the Gladium Sidere.”

He took the information with a nod. Then he realized Mab had just spoken a language fluently that he had avoided using through the entire journey with the thanes and before King Amatus. It was a surprise—but then, he was learning there was much to Mab he had not expected. “So, what next?”

“Next,” Mab said evenly, treading back toward the gates to the city, “we find a hot bath and a warm place to sleep. The Gladium Sidere is a merchant vessel—they will not sail until midmorning on the morrow. We will return then and book ourselves passage.”

After the last few days of insanity, a hot bath sounded like heaven to Jiro. He followed in Mab’s footsteps, looking forward to what was to come.

....

The inn Mab decided on was a small establishment only a few blocks from the harbor, marked with the sign of a sailing ship with a blue mast. Runes adorned the woodwork above the door, unintelligible to Jiro, though he had seen similar markings above other doors on their trek. The building itself was a mix of grey and yellow brick, mottled and lacking a certain artistry that made Jiro wonder; while the city itself seemed to be intelligently constructed, he had caught signs of a wilder side, buildings that didn’t quite look sound, structures wider at the top than the bottom, and entire rows of buildings that were made to fit like puzzle pieces, with one’s upper stories overlapping onto the roofs of the structure next to it. It intrigued him—the workmanship seemed good, but the discombobulating chaos that was apparent at second glance betrayed the difference between fey and mortal planning.

Mab pulled away from the crowd, weaving through with Jiro close on his heels until they reached the inn door. It swung open quietly with a push. A small entry way met them. To the left, Jiro caught sight of a common room through an open doorway, bursting with fey speaking merrily around a roaring fireplace. To the right was a small, curved counter guarding a young woman with a mussed braid and small, pink lips. She glanced up at them as they entered.

“ _Aliquam in Tabernus Carulea Vela, sos. Quid opus est ut in cubiculo_?”

Mab wandered up to meet her, digging in a satchel at his hip. In English, he answered: “Yes.”

She nodded in understanding. “We have rooms for six hoks. How many nights?”

“Just the one,” Mab answered evenly. “And we will need two meals each, one tonight and one tomorrow morning.”

She dug beneath the counter, and produced a key on a wooden ring. “Seven hoks and a rush.”

Mab cast a handful of coins down on the counter; she scrutinized them, then swept them off into her apron pouch. “Tehwaz room,” she said plainly.

Mab nodded, thanking her before mounting the stairway between the common room and woman’s seat. Jiro strode past, casting a glance behind the counter as he went. There were a myriad of mismatched hooks with keys hanging on each, all with a slab of wood carved with different symbols. They looked vaguely familiar, like something he’d seen in games and weaponry. Mab led them up two flights of stairs, then came out on the landing while surveying the wood-paneled hallway before them. Then Jiro saw—each room’s door was marked with a rune to match those on the keys. Numbers, then? He followed Mab down the hallway until they found a door that matched—Tehwaz.

Mab turned the key in the lock, and it clicked merrily, loosing the door to swing inward. The room was dark, but the light from the hall spilled across the floor, revealing a bed barely large enough to hold one man, let alone two. A wash bin stood beside it, decorated with gild and a red cloth. Mab made his way in and bent to the candle on the nightstand. Once it was lit, Jiro stepped through and let the door swing shut behind him.

“So…” he breathed evenly. “This is it.”

Mab slung his pack down across the bed. “Where we spend tonight, yes. It is clean, and well-priced.”

Jiro nodded; his eyes wandered the small space, the warm wood panels and the pile of fur blankets at the foot of the bed. “I don’t suppose they have indoor plumbing here?”

“No…” Mab bent, swinging his arm underneath the bed and grabbing something. A scrape, and a large metal tub emerged. “But baths, yes. We will need to order water from the barman.”

It began to sink in. “You mean, we take our baths in here? In that tub?”

Mab straightened, checking the contents of his bag to ensure it was all still in order. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

Jiro halted for a moment, then shook his head. “Uh… No, not a problem.” It felt odd, knowing Mab had yet to acknowledge what had happened last time he had caught Jiro bathing. Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted him to. “Listen, Mab…”

He paused in his actions, turning in acknowledgement.

“I… Thanks,” he managed. “For not dumping me in the gutter, back at the palace,” he qualified.

Mab appreciated the gesture. “Well, mortal or no, you do have your uses.”

Jiro smiled, and for a moment, he thought he saw a small flicker of humor beneath Mab’s eyes.

“Though it might be difficult for a straight man, to sleep in a bed with someone like me.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jiro cursed with neutral tiredness. “Right now, I could care less. It’s a bed.”

Mab’s face quirked slightly. A spark lit his eyes, beneath the casual grace. They followed Jiro’s form as he unloaded his weapons and sashes and pouches on the trunk at the end of the bed. Then, with little ceremony, Jiro flopped on the fur-covered mattress.

“Oh… That’s amazing,” he sighed happily. It wasn’t a spring mattress—but it was soft, and sank a bit beneath his weight. He felt his muscles relaxing. He was sure he had knots in his shoulders the size of golf balls. Only his fitness had saved him being a complete wreck, after all the running, horseback riding and walking nearly four miles across the city.

Mab’s lips quirked at his enjoyment. “You mortals… You take pleasure in such small things.”

He breathed in contentedly, letting his eyes fall closed. “We don’t have a lot of time to enjoy them,” he said quietly. “Something’s always happening, always yelling at you. If it’s not the news, it’s politics or ads for the stupidest things…” He crooked his hand behind his head. “It’s different here. I can hear myself think.”

Mab had unloaded his own pack and climbed atop the mattress beside him, flopping at his side. There wasn’t much room—Mab’s body rested close enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath his tunic. Self-consciously, Jiro scooted an inch, allowing him more room. Mab took it with an amused smile and settled more comfortably in.

“This guy we’re looking for…”

“Edaire?”

Jiro shook his head. “The other one… The necromancer.”

“Hector,” he confirmed. “Hector Raethgard.”

The name was odd, but he’d gotten used to strange names. “You told King Amatus he was a traitor. But from the sound of it, he was just helping Jace and Morgan. Why spare Morgan’s life to catch his accomplice?” 

It was a dark subject; Mab did not immediately answer. Then, “He was more than an accomplice. He was the architect. Hector has been a thorn in the Queen’s side for many years, and I can only assume now he had been lurking in the shadows, waiting for just the opportunity Morgan provided him. Hector could not get past the guardians of the prison on his own, not without great risk. Morgan was his shield, and a distraction from his real purpose.”

“Freeing the queen’s brother?” Jiro guessed.

The deduction impressed him. “Precisely.”

“But why does it matter so much? Why is it all such a threat?”

Mab frowned. “From what Queen Loraine states… Hector spent years studying sorcery, the construction of wards and how to employ them. Add that to an intimate knowledge of your human weaponry and resources… Not even the Queen knows everything Hector is capable of.” He reached out, and pulled a pillow beneath his head.

“And she sent _you_ out to kill him?” Jiro said in disbelief.

“Do you not think me capable of it?”

It was an accusation. Jiro could only stutter, “I… I mean, I don’t know. Are you?”

A wicked grin. “I am. And I will, when he is found. Hector knows the inner passages of the castle, has heard the Queen’s secrets and carries in his heart a hatred for her. Add that to having the Queen’s own brother at his heel, and he is the greatest threat to our realm we have ever known. It will be a great service to my kingdom to cut him down.”

It was a dark part of Mab, one Jiro had yet to feel comfortable with. He fell to silence, listening to the even breath of the man beside him. The thick scent of spice and leather lingered in the air—Mab’s scent. He inhaled deeply, trying to sort out the strange mix of admiration and caution Mab impressed upon him. The closeness of their bodies felt right, comfortable. How he had come to be so at ease with an immortal elf struck him comically. He should be reeling from everything had happened in the last twenty four hours; instead, it felt more real than he could express.

And so he didn’t try. Bringing a hand up to rest under his head, he said nonchalantly, “So, about these baths…”

A wicked smirk came to Mab’s lips. “I will return downstairs to order the water, and dinner. I hope you like stew and biscuits.”

At the moment, it sounded like a feast. “God, yes!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter this time! *fanfare*
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy. :)

_Smoke filled the forest under a moonlit sky. Hue and cry rose as the clang of steel and smell of blood filled his senses, the black of charred ruins on his hands, his heart pounding a cadence in chest that threatened to burst him from the inside out. The cry of an eagle, a village in flames. Unable to stop it, unable to save them, he raged at the stars, seeing his lover dead before him in pale agony. He couldn’t save him—not from the blackness that threatened to swallow them all_.

_“Jace…”_

_The voice was soft, gentle. It tugged at his heart, pulling him to the surface._

“Jace.”

His eyes flew open—Morgan’s face looked down on him with furrowed brows, worry darkening the fey fire in his eyes. Jace inhaled, exhaled, struggling to gain his bearings. It was a strange room, and the sunlight across the ceiling was soft, quiet.

Then it came back—Orulia, the palace, the king. Amaranth.

Morgan’s arms encircled him, and he managed a smile. “Sorry,” he breathed. “Just a bad dream.”

It did not reassure him. “You have not dreams like that in months…”

He shrugged quietly, inhaling the deep scent of forest that engulfed Morgan; it had become a comfort, like a blanket wrapping him reassurance. They were here, alive, and together. That was what mattered. What came before was gone, over. “Just memories. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Morgan shifted, wrapping his leg around Jace’s beneath the covers. He pressed his lips to Jace’s own, a gentle assurance. “I know, love.” He nuzzled his neck, biting gently at the tender skin. It earned a warm sigh from Jace, who returned the embrace.

“Mmm… You’re wonderful,” he smiled, feeling Morgan’s hand wander down his chest, to the warmth rising beneath his legging laces. His breath hitched, feeling the touch take him without hesitation. Two years, and Morgan still made his heart race and his imagination run wild. Teeth sank more definitely into his neck, and he rolled his hips, pressing into Morgan’s palm with unabashed suggestion. A chuckle rumbled through Morgan’s throat, and his tongue darted out, licking a path up the curve of Jace’s ear.

The sound of footsteps approaching in the outer chamber brought a halt to Morgan’s affections.  He rose to an elbow, and in self-consciousness, Jace slid one of the smaller pillows down to cover his lap.

In moments, a thane in full armor stepped through the door, carrying a tray loaded with breads, cheese and berries. “A good morning,” he said curtly, bending to place on a trunk at the foot of the bed. “His Majesty bids you take pleasure in the gardens today. You will be informed if your companions return before nightfall.”

Jace knew it was a formality—Mab couldn’t possibly have accomplished his task overnight. Even if he was an ambassador.

Morgan nodded gratefully to the thane. “My thanks, and good spirit to you.”

The thane smiled slightly in return, noticing Jace’s uncomfortable blush. “And to you.” He turned and departed without glancing back.

When he was gone, Jace couldn’t help bursting in a chuckle. “God… Don’t these people knock?”

A wicked grin came to Morgan’s face, and he leaned down, kissing him deeply. “Fearful he will know who soiled their sheets?”

Jace blushed more deeply, but he leaned in, pulling Morgan to him. “I’m pretty sure that will be your fault.”

With an appreciative, feral grin, Morgan descended on him, banishing all thoughts of thanes and nightmares and what they still had to accomplish when Mab returned.

....

Jiro woke early the next morning, as sunlight peeked through the windowsill of the little inn. Mab still slept beside him, and in a quiet moment, Jiro let his gaze wander the angles and curves of his companion’s body. It provoked something in Jiro, like a siren’s call—the thing he had avoided for nearly ten years, ever since he’d seen his first porno. His mom had been watching it one night, while she shot up. He’d been barely thirteen, just starting to understand what lust was, while still completely unversed. He’d gotten up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, and when he stepped into the living room, his eyes locked on the screen.

But it wasn’t the woman, full and voluptuous, that transfixed him. It was the man, all muscle, shoving his cock down the woman’s throat. His feet faltered, and he stood rooted on the spot. After a moment, heat flushed his skin, and an odd mix of exhilaration and terror shot through his chest. He wanted to watch more. He wanted to be that woman.

He’d known what that meant—he’d heard his own mom bitch about gay men often enough. _Ikujinashi_ , she called them. Cowards. Men who couldn’t handle a woman, men who were weak, like his father.

It planted a seed of hate Jiro had never shaken.

After that night, realizing he was in danger of becoming just like the men she hated, Jiro swore to himself he would never be weak. He would be stronger than her, stronger than his dad, stronger than everyone. He would show them—he wasn’t weak.

And it worked. He kept his head down, kept his secret and remained strong. He didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral; he didn’t cry when he was shipped off to a foster home, then another after only a few months. He scraped his way through a dozen different schools, never betraying his secret, and threw himself into fighting. He learned. He survived. And he kept a tight lid on any sign of weakness.

Then Mab had come, like a firestorm in the night razing any preconceptions he had to the ground. In the quiet air of the inn room, lying beside him, knowing what this man was capable of… Jiro was at a loss for answers. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find them.

Biting his lip, he laid back, waiting for the day to come.

....

The Gladium Sidere proved to be more difficult to locate than expected. Mab and Jiro wandered the docks for a while, up and down the quay. At last, they spotted it—a large, two-masted schooner gilded in green and blue. A large dragon served as the figure head, carved into the bow, snarling fiercely at them as they approached. The scuffle of sailors aboard the deck said they were close to shoving off. As Mab approached, he raised a hand in greeting, calling out,

“Hail! Permission to board!”

One of the sailors paused in his work, calling over his shoulder, “ _Hie, Navigator! Salutor!_ ”

In moments, the silhouette of a woman appeared over the side. She was beautiful—tall, strong and hale, with golden blond hair tied back in a braid. She wore an assortment of colored cloth in sashes, and carried a large, double-bladed axe strapped across her back. Her stark voice broke the air, “ _Quis estis_?”

Mab stood with authority. “Men who would be passengers. May we board?”

She paused only a moment to gauge their earnestness, then kicked down a length of rope. “Aye, come aboard.”

Mab grabbed the end tail of the rope and hoisted himself up hand over hand, ascending the side of the boat with the grace of a cat. Jiro hesitated only a moment when it came his turn. He wrapped the length of cord around his palm and climbed in similar fashion. When he came up over the side, Mab stood waiting. He did not speak, or betray that such adept climbing had surprised him. He only smiled as the captain approached.

Up close, she was even more intimidating. Her clothes were light, but she wore a belt of trinkets and weaponry Jiro appraised with admiration. Her curt voice cut through the air. “What are your names, and where do you travel?”

Mab nodded in courtesy. “I am Mab Anatolus, and my companion is Jiro Han. We seek passage to Portica.”

She pressed her lips. “No trouble, I trust?”

Mab shook his head. “We go with the king’s blessing.”

This impressed her. Sizing them up head to toe, she conceded. “Passage is fifteen noks per head. If you choose to debark before Portica, the extra coin will not be returned.”

Mab dug into the pouch at his hip—a different pouch than before, Jiro noted—and produced the money. “When do we sail?”

She surveyed the spread of coin; when they proved up to her standard, she closed her fist about them and smiled. “Under an hour. You have full roam of the ship once we are under way, apart from the armory and captain’s quarters beneath the bridge. Your quarters are below deck, through that hatch,” she waved to a small trapdoor on the stern. “Do not bother my sailors, or get in their way. If we face attack, I expect you to fight. You may call me Captain Cairus.”

Mab nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Captain. You can be assured we will not bring trouble to you.”

“I trust not. Now please, take your place below deck,” she dismissed. “You will be informed when we have casted off.” She turned and made her way back to the bridge, barking orders at the sailor nearest her.

Jiro looked to Mab, who was smiling. He turned and followed him to the hatch. Mab pulled the leather tie, and it swung open without a sound. Sunlight tumbled down a ladder leading down into the hull, and with little ceremony, Mab climbed onto the first steps, then slid the rest of the way down. He looked up to Jiro, as if with challenge.

Jiro didn’t hesitate. He gripped the banister the way Mab had, and let momentum and gravity pull him down into the bowels of the ship. He landed with a graceful thud on the balls of his feet, smiling to himself.

Mab eyed him with appreciation. “You move like a fey.”

It was the first direct compliment he’d had from Mab’s lips; pride welled in his chest, though he did not betray it. He only shrugged, “Not all of us are frail.”

It pleased him. “Come,” he said easily, turning toward the door that awaited them. “It would be wise to follow the captain’s instructions. The less attention we draw, the better.”

....

The quarters assigned to them were small, but tidy—two hammocks hung on the far wall, and a large trunk was nailed down to the floor to the right. The gentle lap of waves on the side of the bark could be heard against the wall, like a melody too long unfinished. Mab took one look around and decided, “Good. Very good.”

Jiro crossed the space to where the hammocks hung, testing one with hand. They were low-hung; the top one only came up to Jiro’s eye line. On a ship like this, though, it seemed the most efficient use of the space. He turned back to Mab. “You want top or bottom?”

A single brow shot up in amusement, feeling quite like the jest. “Bottom.”

At another time, the innuendo would have infuriated him—Mab was a curious mix of authority and playfulness, and Jiro was growing accustomed to it. He’d seen this man stand toe to toe with a king and cast threats; at the same time, Mab’s insistent use of sardonic wit loosened Jiro’s guard and brought a sense of likeability to the man. Unbidden, Jiro felt the familiar heat flushing his skin as he watched Mab bend over the chest, lifting the lid to check its contents. He felt the compulsion to reach out and grab those hips, feel the softness of his skin beneath fabric, the thick scent of spice that engulfed him. He wanted to know for certain what he already felt—the truth behind the attraction. His lips parted.

Mab straightened and glanced over his shoulder. Quickly masking his admiration, Jiro glanced away, trying to keep the color from his cheeks. If Mab caught it, he did not challenge him, setting the lid closed with a quiet gesture.

Unable to think what to say, Jiro pulled himself up on the top hammock and settled in, ignoring Mab’s curious eyes on his form.

....

The ship made way soon enough—he felt the jolt and roll of the waves begin pulling them, and heard the cries of the sailors above deck, barking at one another in that strange language. Mab sat on the trunk, cleaning his various knives. And soon, a knock came on the cabin door. Mab rose as if he had been waiting to pounce, hopping up and swinging it wide.

A man in sailor garb stood on the other side. “Captain says you may come on deck now, if you wish.”

Mab grinned. “Thank you,” and turned back to Jiro. “If you would care to see more of Quintos, this is your chance.”

Jiro rolled and landed feet first on the floor, then straightened with eager curiosity.

....

 Above deck, sailors roamed the vessel. The wind had caught the sails, and oars set out on either side, propelling them along. The deep blue-grey of the waters churned beneath the oars, swirling in time. Jiro stood at the prow, looking out on the land around them with sensory fulfillment. A rolling spread of dark forests and open sky had accompanied them for the better part of the morning; he’d been content simply to soak it all in.

Mab stood at his side, a dark figure against the bright blue of the sky. His long, dark mane twined with the wind, lingering in the breeze. He was striking. Like the statue of a god in living, breathing flesh. Jiro had never seen anything like it, and it took his breath.

 As if sensing Jiro’s eyes, Mab turned. An arrogant grin tugged at his lips. “Well, Jiro… You have boasted of your skill in combat. Would you like to test it against me?”

It was a challenge, even if a mild-natured one. Jiro cast his gaze around the deck, wondering, “Here?”

Mab nodded. “The sailors will not begrudge us a few square feet. And I imagine they will enjoy seeing me throw you to your back again.”

Determination hardened his features, and his resolve. “You’re pretty cocky for a guy who spends his time skulking in shadows.”

Mab grinned, stepping forward; their words had drawn the attention of several nearby crewmen, and they gathered like moths to a flame to see the spectacle. Mab began sliding his weapons off, setting them at the base of the mast. “It is not all skulking. Sometimes it is battling warriors who have lived longer than you can imagine, and slitting their throats as they lay begging.”

The blunt intensity hit Jiro with dark provocation. He unstrapped his own dagger and laid it next to Mab’s. “No weapons,” he asserted, “Not even brass knuckles. Hand to hand. When you’ve had enough, just tap out.”

Mab smirked. “Tap out? What strange custom is that?”

Jiro didn’t flinch. “Smack the deck with your hand.”

“A custom of your people?” he taunted lightly.

Jiro grinned. “That’s right.” He walked a few paces across the deck, and turned. “Ready?”

Mab dumped the final few pieces of metal and belts to the deck—he stood in only his clothing, like a dark-clad ghost. “Ready.”

The adrenaline began pumping in Jiro’s veins. With unwavering confidence, he breathed, “Three… Two… One…”

“Hie!” Mab cried, launching at him with fists bared.

It was a whirlwind, an incredible bludgeoning of fist and feet and precision. Jiro threw up defense, countered and threw his own strikes in return, missing Mab by inches. The man moved like a dancer, a deadly mass of serpentine agility and brutal force. A blow connected with Jiro’s stomach, and he felt his gut tighten, tearing the breath from his lungs. He didn’t stop, but kept swinging. He hooked Mab’s wrist and tried to throw him, but the man tore free with a blow to the head. Then an arm hooked his knee and flipped him to the deck.

Mab launched to pin him down, but Jiro rolled and tumbled back to his feet while throwing out a kick aimed at Mab’s head. It was a ferocious attack, given the circumstances, but he knew if he wanted any chance, he had to go full throttle. Mab narrowly dodged the blow, and then they were on their feet again, facing each other with raised fists.

The sailors who now surrounded them muttered in surprise and appreciation. Jiro guessed they’d never seen an ambassador in action, and even he had to admit—Mab was a deadly opponent. The spark, the same spark he knew to beware from his fights with Morgan, flashed in Mab’s eye, and Jiro braced himself for the end.

It came in a flurry of fist, foot and elbows, precision jabs and inhuman speed. Jiro fought as best he could, even managing to kick in a trip maneuver. Mab corrected and grasped his throat, but Jiro spun and countered, breaking free from the hold. He rolled in the opposite direction, away from the blue-grey depths awaiting him below. That’s when the blow came—straight to his neck, with controlled force that sent him sprawling to the deck boards. Mab leapt on him. Jiro twisted, breaking free from the dangerous hold that exposed his back. He knew he was losing—that Mab had him. But he refused to give in, throwing another punch at the man’s ribs while trying to roll him. Mab cried out in anger, and sliced through his defense to grab his neck again. Jiro rocked, trying to get a hold of Mab with his legs, but only managed to secure the man’s weight more solidly on his chest and lungs. Mab’s grip on his throat tightened, suffocating him. With growing fear Jiro felt his lungs constrict; he had to break this, or he would be done.

Finally, with a roll that strained every muscle in his body, he slipped his knees under Mab’s shoulders, then used his hands to break Mab’s grip, throwing him bodily up and off, onto the deck.

Mab landed with a startled grunt. But it wasn’t over—with a certain relish, Mab rolled to stand, matching Jiro face to face. “You are going to regret that,” he growled.

Jiro laughed, though the hoarseness in his throat was a reminder just how close Mab had come to throttling him. “What are you going to do about it?”

It was the wrong question. Before Jiro could blink, Mab was on him. It was… insane. He could barely keep eyes on him, Mab moved so fast. And in the space of a moment, Jiro had been beaten to the deck, then finished with a harsh elbow to the back, knocking him flat on his stomach. Mab grabbed his wrists, and spread his legs down across Jiro’s to keep them pinned.

“It seems you are unable to tap out,” Mab hissed vengefully. “But I will settle for hearing you beg mercy.”

It invoked rage in Jiro. “Fuck off, you bastard. I’m not begging you for anything.”

Mab twisted his arms, enjoying the wince it produced. Subtly he arched his hips, rocking them more definitively against the crook of Jiro’s ass. Jiro felt the heat that pooled there—Mab was hard, and getting harder. 

“Concede,” Mab taunted, “or I pull your shoulders out of their sockets.”

Jiro grunted. He didn’t think Mab would actually do it—not in front of the dozen sailors now watching them with murmuring voices. He also feared the longer they stayed like this, the more his body would respond. Already he felt the fire pooling in his gut, threatening to display his thoughts about Mab for everyone to see. It terrified him. The sailors, Captain Cairus… They would know he got off on this. Got off on Mab. Mab pressed more firmly still, betraying what Jiro already knew: that was precisely Mab’s plan. He’d seen it in Jiro, the shame. And now he used it as a weapon.

“Concede, Jiro,” his velvet voice urged. “Beg me.”

Completely immobile and at the other man’s mercy, Jiro knew he was beaten. “Goddamn it… Mercy,” he snarled.

With a victorious grin, Mab released his hands. Jiro felt the pressure loosen as Mab rose, standing over him with an air of triumph. A small round of cheers rose from the sailors, appreciation for the show. Jiro rolled to his feet and looked no one in the eye. He swiped his daggers from where they lay at the base of the mast and made a beeline below deck.

…

He stormed into the cabin and slammed the door, but the noise only heightened his anger. It was a cruel blow for Mab to use him like that. Taunt him, seduce him, then use what he had learned to humiliate him. His blood boiled, and beneath it, the heat, the desire for what he knew he couldn’t have. Not with Mab, not with anyone. He raged at his shame with terrifying intensity, pacing the cabin, and threw his dagger to the hammock with a sweeping force.

“Fuck…” he breathed. “Jesus fucking Christ… Fuck…”

The door opened behind him.

Mab.

Jiro launched at him, throwing him against the wall. He knew Mab could fight him, could kill him if he truly wanted to. Right now, he didn’t care.

Mab looked at him with self-satisfied triumph. “You get what you ask for. I victored fairly.”

“No, you blackmailed me. There’s a difference!”

“I used the tools I had to defeat you. You mistake resourcefulness for unfair play. It is my job as an ambassador to use others’ weaknesses to my advantage.”

“It’s not a weakness,” he growled, startling himself with his own defense. “You said yourself, it takes strength. I’m not weak!”

“You are weak,” Mab hissed in return. “As long as you feel shame in what you are, you are weak.”

Jiro cursed under his breath, unable to face the truth in Mab’s words. “You… You have no right to tell me what I am!”

Mab smiled. “It is my business to know. It is what I do.”

“What, dissect people and use it to destroy them?”

“I _know_ what I am, Jiro. It is why I am strong. What are you?”

Jiro knew it was the moment. But he couldn’t speak it. Even now, nose to nose with a man he had kissed breathless, he couldn’t say it.

“Say it,” Mab urged in dominance. “Tell me what you are…” His hand ghosted across Jiro’s hip, and his breath rolled in warm waves over his neck. Jiro suppressed a shudder as Mab’s lips pressed his throat in a kiss. “Unless you are too weak…”

He couldn’t take it anymore—he seized Mab’s hair and pulled that smirking mouth to his own.

It was everything he remembered and more. The taste of Mab’s lips, their supple yield and the clash of teeth; he forced his tongue down Mab’s throat as bodies met and battled, igniting the lust that had terrified him minutes ago. Adrenaline still flowed in his veins, pushing him farther. He needed this—needed what Mab gave, needed to feel and taste and touch him. Like a sudden break that lets free the beast, he felt the excitement race through his body, spurring him on. He reached down, cupping Mab’s crotch and feeling the hard cock beneath the fabric. He ran a hand up and down the length, savoring it. God, but it felt good. A feral, rumbling chuckle escaped Mab’s lips, fanning Jiro’s desire. He found the ties and released them; Mab’s cock burst from the top of the leggings, spilling out into his palm in heat.

Mab’s breath heightened, and Jiro paused. He didn’t know how to do this, not really. But deep down, instinct answered—this was a man, like him. He wrapped his hand around the hardening length and tugged.

Mab gasped in his mouth and attacked with zeal, forcing his tongue down Jiro’s throat and tightening his grip around the nape of his neck. Reaffirmed, Jiro tugged again, and again. Mab’s hips thrust to meet him, and it sent his own cock straining against the soft inside of his leggings. The spark between them fanned to an inferno as Mab yanked Jiro’s leggings down, and Jiro forced his knee between Mab’s thighs, spreading him.

The ship rocked, adding a cadence to their thrusts. Jiro forced Mab’s tunic up, pulling it over his head. Ink black hair fell down his chiseled chest, and Jiro bent. He wanted to taste every inch of this man, wanted to feel the fire, be burned and transformed by it, inside and out. He found a tender nipple and bit hard; Mab growled in feral pleasure. The cock in Jiro’s hand jolted in appreciation. He rose again, capturing Mab’s gasping mouth. Stroking the rock-hard length, feeling his body yield and moan against him, Jiro knew there was no going back. He’d crave this until the day he died; at the moment, he didn’t care.

Without warning Mab hooked his leg. Jiro landed on his knees with an exhale, and Mab’s hand guided him forward, face to face with the full reality of Mab’s searing length. He hesitated only a second before parting his lips and tasting the head with eager hunger.

It was everything he’d dreamt and more. The soft, solid meat of Mab’s swollen cock slid across his tongue, and a musky mix of sweat and arousal filled his nose. Jiro let his tongue languish across the firm head, then opened wider to let more of that glorious cock into his mouth, until it hit the back of his throat; he retreated slowly, savoring every inch.

A quiet sigh escaped Mab’s chest; Jiro looked up—those piercing eyes, clear through the haze, met him, so full of fire Jiro’s own cock pulsed in answer. He descended again, letting instinct set him a rhythm. Mab’s hips thrust, first once, then again, adding force until Jiro thought he would choke from it. Still he wanted more. He let Mab take over with both hands in his hair, holding him steady while fucking his throat with ever-rising intensity.

He went too far—Jiro coughed and sputtered, gasping for air. Mab held on for one agonizing moment, and released him with a wicked grin.

“What is wrong, little wolf?” he taunted. “Too much for you?”

Jiro fell back, sputtering and gasping. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, a grin on his face. “Never.”

A glint in Mab’s eyes, a fire. He descended like a black-winged phoenix, forcing Jiro down until the smoothness of the floorboards pressed his back. Mab came to straddle him, stroking his own cock while taking in the sight of his mortal prone.

Jiro opened his mouth, “Wait—”

Mab silenced him with a kiss, letting Jiro’s length slide along the crevice of his ass in tantalizing explanation. The very thought made Jiro’s cock pulse and his breath shake. Mab sat up, reaching for one of his leather pouches to produce a small tin and popped the lid. A scent poured into the air, a mix of spice and incense—Mab’s scent. With a wicked smile, he explained: “Weapon polish.”

That alone made Jiro moan in need. As Mab’s mouth descended once more to claim his own, Jiro felt the salacious warmth of lubricant across his cock, a hand pumping him with roughness. Only a moment more preparation, then Mab positioned himself and let the tight, hot depth of his ass envelope Jiro’s cock, inch by inch.

The sensations engulfed Jiro in a heady rush of exhilaration. Mab began rocking in rhythm, sweet torture. Jiro’s breath came in gasps, his hands gripped Mab’s thighs in desperation, his hips thrust of their own volition, and somewhere in the distance he heard Mab’s conquering laugh rumble through the cabin.

“That’s it,” he taunted. “Show me your claws.”

The self-satisfied tone struck rebellion in Jiro; it welled in him through the haze. Determined not to give Mab the victory, he rolled to sit, capturing Mab in a heated embrace. His hand followed the curve of Mab’s muscled shoulder blades as they moved in cadence, letting it wander down the length of his spine, over his gyrating ass, adding more force to the thrusts. Tongues clashed in a warring dance, even as Jiro fought to keep a smirk from his own lips. His hand lingered over the soft, vulnerable skin of Mab’s backside.

Without warning, he pulled back and spanked Mab’s ass.

Fire exploded in the assassin’s eye. He slammed himself down on Jiro’s cock, eliciting a gasp from his lungs. “You…”

Undaunted, Jiro landed another spank. It lit something in them both, and his cock throbbed in answer. A hand came to his throat, but Jiro didn’t stop, not even as it tightened, threatening to block his breath. Another spank, this time with hard confidence. Mab grunted in heightened pleasure, working his hips faster. Jiro felt the mix of rage and lust burn through his lover’s body. He kept time with the thrusts and let his hips buck to meet it; the electricity of the thrill hummed in his veins. He tensed in an impending explosion. Wrapped in his arms, Mab wound tighter with every second. Jiro knew what the tension meant, and gave himself over to it in utter abandon. 

He didn’t know who came first. He didn’t know if the heat of his own explosion sent Mab over the edge, or if the blast of cum and sudden clench of Mab’s ass was the final blow. He didn’t know when Mab’s eyes rolled closed in abandon, or when his own opened again. He didn’t know when the hand around his throat shifted from threat to caress. As the room spun and his body shook, Jiro fell back, pulling Mab down atop him as their tongues languished in the battle won. His skin tingled, his chest heaved, and his nose filled with the musk of sweat and sex and passion. Whatever this was, this beautiful aftermath, it was everything he’d ever wanted.

As the world began to return, the roll of the ship and voice of the sailors above, calling orders to one another, Jiro felt his breath steady and his skin cool. He knew they were a mess, both of them; it didn’t matter. Seeing Mab spread across his chest was like resting in paws of a tiger, dangerous, yet so utterly right he couldn’t put words to it. Jiro caressed the curve of Mab’s hip, fighting to bring the truth of what had just occurred into rationality. There was a myriad of things unsaid, words not spoken.

Mab did not seem keen to rectify their lack. After a few more moments of warmth, he rolled his hips, pulling away. Jiro gasped at the sensation of the outer air against his sensitive shaft; his lover did not linger, using grace to stand. He smiled down on Jiro with triumph.  “Yes… I do like you like this.”

Self-conscious at being appraised, Jiro moved to stand, as well. He searched for his clothes, then realized he was in desperate need of a wash.

Before he’d finished thinking it, Mab tossed a canteen and rag his way. Jiro went to the wash bin and wrapped up the evidence. Mab reclined on the bottom hammock, once more in full gear and looking for all the world like a sated cat. “We will be to Portica by the evening,” he said lazily. “And then we may hunt out Edaire. I do not imagine he will be difficult to find. Men like him are too intelligent for their own good. They betray themselves to everyone they meet. And a memorable man is easy to track.”

It was strange, a look into the inner workings of Mab’s mind. “Do you think he’ll talk to us?”

“I think he will speak with me, if you can keep silent. In truth, Jace is likely the best liar of you lot, but it was wise of him to elect to stay behind. His ineptitude with a blade would only make him a liability. Morgan would have been the best companion for this mission, all told. It is a shame he felt so bound to his mortal he could not leave.”

The words stung, after everything that had just happened. Jiro shrugged his tunic back on in silence.

“If all goes well, we will find Edaire within hours of making port, and be back in Orulia by the end of the week,” Mab continued.

“And then, what?” Jiro asked lowly. “Where do you begin looking for Hector?”

Mab smiled, pleased. “In the forest lands to the east of Orulia, across the lake. That was where he was last seen, nearly eighteen months ago.”

It surprised him—he’d thought they were speaking in terms of weeks, not months. “You really think you’ll be able to pick up his trail, this long after?”

“I think Morgan will. He is a great hunter, or was, before he left for his mortal whelp.” He spat the final words like a curse.

And it rubbed Jiro the wrong way. Unable to contain himself any longer, he turned. “Will you quit calling mortals trash and pets and whelps? Seriously…” He tugged his boots on. “You do realize I’m a mortal too, right?”

Mab frowned. “Yes. I am well aware.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be bashing Morgan for sleeping with a mortal when you just spent the last fifteen minutes with my cock up your ass.”

A flicker of understanding flashed in his eye, then disappeared beneath a defensive wall. In an attempt to justify himself, Mab countered, “Morgan is not just rutting with a mortal, he is in love with one. That is very different than what is between us. I do not love you.”

“Jesus Christ…” Jiro breathed, with a mix of exasperation and anger. “You really have no filter, do you? Whatever pops into your head, it just comes out swinging.”

Mab’s brows furrowed. “I censor myself among enemies and prey. I had thought you were neither.”

Too angry to work out whether that came out to a compliment, Jiro finished cinching his belt and weapons back around his waist and headed toward the door. “I guess not,” he said ambiguously. “I’ll be on deck.”

Mab was left in the aftermath, a grim and troubled frown on his sharp features.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say - though I've tried to do my homework, please let me know if any aspect of Jiro's representation as a Japanese-American is incorrect or off. It is only a piece of who he is, but it's an important piece, and I want to represent it both accurately and respectfully. 
> 
> Hope you guys liked the chapter. :) More should be coming soon on its heels. I spent some extra time on this one going over the mechanics of the fight scene and making sure it all worked out from a technical aspect. But the rest should be rolling more smoothly. :)


End file.
